Tristan's Choice
by Winsome Elf
Summary: Tristan, the most enigmatic and disturbing of Arthur's knights, helps a damaged young woman begin a new life and loses the heart he never knew he had in the process. It won't be easy, and it won't be pretty. A TristanOC romance.
1. Chapter 1

**Tristan's Choice**

**Summary:** Tristan, the most enigmatic and disturbing of Arthur's knights, helps a damaged young woman begin a new life and loses the heart he never knew he had in the process. It won't be easy, and it won't be pretty. A Tristan/OC romance, hopefully not a Mary-Sue. I've had some doubts about the rating, but have decided on M for sexual situations and violence.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** My story follows the basic premise of the 2004 movie KING ARTHUR. However, I have added the character of Morgan as Tristan's love interest. For those of you familiar with the legendary King Arthur, you may recall Morgan le Fey as Arthur's half-sister, a wicked sorceress who bore him a son, Mordred. Mordred later killed Arthur in battle. However, the characterization of Morgan as an evil sorceress and temptress did not appear in the earlier Arthurian legends but rather evolved gradually over the centuries. Instead, the original Morgan bore a striking resemblance to the more benevolent Lady of the Lake. This Morgan was raised on the mystical island of Avalon and was renown, among other things, for her magical powers of healing. My story's Morgan draws a little from both versions, but she is for the most part an entirely new character, more suited to the setting and premise of the movie. I hope you will enjoy it! The story will switch to Tristan's POV beginning in Chapter 1. **Reviews are most welcome! **

**DISCLAIMER: **Much as I would like to, I own none of the characters of King Arthur.

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**Prologue: **

_463 A.D. (four years before the movie), near the Roman fort of Avallana_

She awoke to the sound of wind-driven rain exploding against the treetops, and her body recoiled in terror. She did not recognize the loud staccato of water for what it was; through the fog of pain and fatigue that enveloped her she instead heard the thundering hoof beats of her enemies' horses. The _Romans' _horses. Fierce and merciless like their masters. _Implacable_—plowing through everything and everyone, pounding them into submission. Or oblivion, if their masters willed it.

The Romans had willed it for her mother, even though her mother had once loved a Roman, and had borne him a child.

The Romans would will it for her too.

As panic set in, her heart was caught in a cruel vise and she found that she could no longer breathe. She lifted a feeble hand to her tattered throat, still oozing her life's blood where a Roman blade had pierced it. She wanted to scream her outrage, her horror, at what they had done, at what they would do. But she could not even utter a croak.

The small ravine where she lay hidden sheltered her from the worst of the storm that raged above the trees, but it could not save her from the fury of the storm raging within her. She screamed one silent scream after another until her mind shattered and she knew no more...

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**HISTORICAL NOTE:** Avallana was an actual Roman fort along Hadrian's Wall in Britain. It was located about 20 miles from the Roman fort of Camboglanna (Birdoswald), where the historical Arthur and his Sarmatian knights were believed to have been stationed.


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNING:** My Tristan has some _serious_ issues, but this shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who has seen—_really_ closely seen and contemplated—Mads Mikkelsen's brilliant and understated portrayal of Tristan in the movie.

Also, some of the words I use in the story might be a little jarring (e.g. the use of "whore" instead of "prostitute"), but please bear in mind that I am telling the story from Tristan's point of view from this chapter on. Please read and review!

**Tristan's Choice**

**Chapter One:**

_467 A.D. (late fall, a few months before the events in the movie), the Roman fort of Camboglanna_

He had no intentions of going into the tavern. Tristan, famed Knight of the Round Table, preferred his own company, or that of his horse and hawk, to that of the raucous crowd that gathered every night to drink and carouse. That crowd included his comrades-in-arms—men who had fought with him and might one day die for him, men with whom he had shared a past in a distant land long ago. They were not his friends—Tristan had no _real_ friends, nor did he particularly want any—but they were the closest things to friends he had ever had. And they would insist that he join them for a round of ale if they saw him walking past the outdoor tavern on his way home from the stables.

So he resolved _not_ to be seen. His was a rare ability—and a necessary one for a successful scout. Tristan could blend into his surroundings so perfectly, stalk so silently, that he sneaked in and out of enemy camps almost at will. He avoided the lookouts without effort and counted the enemy's numbers one by one, took stock of their arms and supplies, and often strolled among them while they slept, idly wondering at their dreams—wondering too if he should put an abrupt end to any of them. He could slit a man's throat without his victim ever realizing what had happened. Tall and lean and lithe, Tristan moved with the easy grace of a predator and looked upon the rest of the world as potential prey.

Not that he was a cruel man, he reflected, as he walked along the deserted street, though many would consider him so, and some might even call him sadistic because he was so good at what he did...

He was almost past the tavern when the sweet sound of Vanora's singing drifted to his ears and interrupted his thoughts. He paused in the shadows and tilted his head to listen, briefly eyeing the bright, beckoning lanterns and the half-drunk crowd with indifference before lowering his gaze.

He lingered in the shadows after the song was done, his eyes again turning inward to continue his rare moment of introspection. Tristan was a man of few words, and even fewer deep thoughts. He did not like to examine himself too closely; he simply accepted what he was. And yet…and yet…

Yes, he killed, and killed without compunction. And, yes, he enjoyed it, as Galahad liked to point out every time the younger knight vented his anger and disgust over the life they were forced to lead in defense of Roman interests. Tristan took the personal criticism in stride; it was simply the truth. But even though he enjoyed killing, he never went out of his way to make anyone's death particularly painful, or prolonged. He had perfected killing, elevated it to an art form—a dance, if you will. His sword thrusts and bow shots were clean and elegant—one might say even merciful, for they seldom missed their mark. Death came quickly to his opponents. After all, what honor was there in shooting a man full of arrows, if one clean shot through the heart or eye could do the job? What honor was there in hacking away at his prey like Bors or Gawain till there was little left to resemble a man? No, he was not cruel or sadistic. He was a precise, efficient killer. He did not _waste_…

An unexpected movement from across the street—a bright splash of red beneath the tavern's entrance arch—caught his hawk-like eyes, and brought him out of his reverie. For an instant he thought it might be Arthur in his red cloak—Arthur who frequented the tavern even less than he did—and the scout straightened with interest. But it was not Arthur.

It was the new girl, come to empty a cistern into the street drain.

Tristan had never seen her before—and having seen her just now would not have given the girl a second thought—but Gawain had mentioned her to him the other day during a sparring match and what he said was mildly intriguing.

"She is the only person I know who is less friendly than you," Gawain had told him. "Silent. A real cold fish—until you get her into bed, that is."

Lancelot had the reputation of being a ladies' man—and had a long string of lovers to prove it. But it was Gawain who tried out all the new girls first. Gawain saved his coin for the whores; Lancelot squandered his on gambling and got his bedding for free—eventually.

Tristan now studied the girl as she turned and headed back into the tavern. She did not _look_ like a whore—Gawain had said as much—nor did she walk like one. Her back was straight and her gait stiff, so stiff in fact that her skirts did not sway. And she certainly did not dress like a whore. The red dress she wore would not seem out of place on a respectable Roman matron. It covered her from neck to toe. A whore always exposed her bosom and ankles—no matter how cold—for it was good for business. Whatever curves the girl had—if any—were hidden by the heavy fabric. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight, forbidding braid.

She did _not_ look like a whore. She looked like the most modest of maidens.

And yet, three nights ago she had bedded Gawain for coin.

Just as she was about to disappear behind the archway and he was about to resume his walk home, his curiosity sated, the girl turned her head toward the street corner—the same corner where Tristan lurked unseen in the shadows. He started, momentarily surprised. She could not possibly have spotted him, yet her eyes seemed to skewer him in the dark. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she was gone from view.

And he found himself walking toward the tavern.


	3. Chapter 3

TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER TWO

Tristan had never intended to go into the tavern, yet now he found himself in the brightly-lit archway being hailed by Gawain. It bemused him that some slip of a girl--a whore no less--had compelled his feet to walk in this direction. He seldom felt _compelled _to do anything outside of the battlefield. If the truth be told, he seldom _felt _much of anything anymore. Emotions had no place in the life he led.

When he entered the tavern, his eyes did not immediately seek the girl out. He would not give in to such a weakness. Instead, he walked with a slow, easy stride toward the knights, his look inscrutable, his attention seemingly focused on some distant place. Yet he was acutely aware of the effect he was having on his fellow patrons. Whether they were bone-weary farmers and tradesmen, trying to squeeze out a little enjoyment in this gods-forsaken place, or battle-hardened Roman soldiers ready for the next fight, they _all _gave him a wide berth. He was used to it and did not care one whit about it. In the past, he had even preyed on their fear to amuse himself—"accidentally" knocking into someone's shoulder as he passed or staring at someone a tad too long just to see that panicky, hunted look come into their eyes.

Even the women avoided him as much as possible, all except for Bors' Vanora, who treated him no differently than she did the other knights. That is to say, she had no qualms about giving him a sound tongue-lashing if she thought he deserved it. But, for the most part, on the rare occasions when he showed up at the tavern, she would care for him, see to it that his cup remained full and that he got his apple. He put up with any fussing from her with uncharacteristic good humor—because of the apple, he told himself, and left it at that.

"We didn't expect to see you here tonight, Tristan," Gawain said, his words slightly slurred, as the scout reached him.

"Got thirsty," was all Tristan replied. He took a seat at the end of the table, stretching his long legs in front of him, and nodded at the other knights.

For once, Gawain did not have a woman pressed into his lap, and that surprised Tristan. But Lancelot and Galahad did, as usual. Bors was bouncing Vanora's latest whelp on his knee. That too was to be expected. And Dagonet had both hands wrapped around his ale--he was a quiet, pensive drinker. Tristan suspected all five were well into their cups. He himself never got drunk.

Vanora must have seen him come in, for in the next moment she thrust a mug of ale into his hand and set down an apple, before swirling away again to attend other customers.

No other woman—bar wench or whore—approached him. He did not miss their attention. Sometimes, a new girl would make the mistake of testing her wiles on him. He made sure she never made that same mistake twice.

Tristan took out one of the many knives he carried.

He did not like women brazenly coming onto him. He did not like them simpering over him, muttering falsehoods…_touching _him. Trying to sooth him as if he were some wild animal to be tamed. He was contemptuous of the whores—not because they were whores but because of their swinish behavior in the tavern, their lack of self-control--although, he was certainly not above hiring them when the mood struck and they were not above accepting him. If it came down to it, he could buy _any_ whore he wanted, no matter how disturbing they found his manner to be. He was not a tender, considerate lover, but he had never hurt a woman in his life—which was more than most men could say.

Tristan cut a slice from his apple and brought it to his mouth.

"Well, Gawain…are you going to buy her, or not?" Lancelot asked.

As he slowly chewed, Tristan shifted his gaze to the dark knight, who in turn was looking at Gawain and motioning with his head toward the other end of the tavern.

Tristan followed the motion until he saw her. The girl in the red dress.

"Because if you're not, I'd like to have a go at her," Lancelot continued, and Tristan's eyes darted back. The buxom blonde on Lancelot's lap slapped him on the arm and started to get up in protest, but the dark knight tightened his hold around her waist, making Tristan wonder if Lancelot was serious or merely goading Gawain.

"You can _try_," Gawain replied with a snort, and Tristan suspected the latter. In all likelihood Lancelot lacked the coin to buy _any_ body this evening. There were at least three dice games being played at the moment, and Lancelot was not playing any of them—which could only mean he had nothing left to _play with_.

But Gawain was a different matter altogether. Tristan studied him through hooded eyes. The golden knight's attention was now firmly fixed on the new girl and a lazy, appreciative smile spread across his face. He toyed with a silver coin in one hand, twirling it around and around, but seemed to forget the mug of ale he held in the other.

Tristan's brow furrowed with the slightest of frowns. With deliberate casualness, he turned back toward the girl. She was still two tables away, but she was heading toward them, her arms laden with a heavy tray. For the first time since he saw her standing in the archway, Tristan got a good look at her. A _really_ good look. And he understood Gawain's interest.

The new girl was lovely.

He heard someone call her "Morgan"—a Celtic name certainly; but save for her pale skin, she looked nothing like a Celt. She was small, for one thing, more like a Woad. And her hair was not fair and straight. It was thick and dark and unruly—several curls had already escaped the tightly woven braid. She _had _Roman hair. The girl was a mongrel, like Arthur, but undeniably a lovely one.

Hers was not the bold, ripe beauty of the other tavern wenches. Hers was a delicate, almost patrician beauty that Tristan knew would appeal to any number of men. Her manner might be shy and aloof, but she would never lack for customers. Plainly put, there were men who would prefer the feel of her small body to that of a more voluptuous whore—men who liked to maintain the illusion that they were bedding a young, untried maiden. A _lady_. Over time some of the men might actually come to feel protective of her. Gawain would be such a man.

Then there were those who would be drawn to her for the exact opposite reason—twisted men who liked to break beautiful, fragile things. Tristan did not doubt that she would get more than her fair share of rough usage.

Illusion or perversion. Neither of these things drew him to the girl.

Instead, Tristan was drawn to her air of _aloneness_.

He watched her now as she maneuvered her way gracefully through the crowded tavern. Her face was devoid of all expression; her dark eyes veiled. She never stopped to chat or flirt, never met anyone's gaze. She seemed, for all intents, to inhabit another world, far removed from the cold stone walls of Camboglanna. And yet, she must have been keenly aware of her surroundings—not once did she bump into a swaying back or brush against an errant hand, not once did she break her stride to avoid an unwanted collision. Tristan admired the cool efficiency of her movements, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his face. Little Morgan reminded him of _himself_.

She arrived at their table a short time later with a fresh pitcher of ale, several loaves of bread with cheese—Vanora's doing, he was sure—and another apple. This she placed before him as soon as she set down her tray, her eyes meeting his in a fleeting glance. Tristan wondered if Vanora had told her about his penchant for the fruit, or if she had noticed it herself. He was unprepared for the pleasure he felt at the thought that she might have been watching him. He was unprepared for the little spark of excitement that ignited in his gut when their eyes briefly met.

The other knights welcomed her with more courtesy than they were wont to show a whore and the wench on Galahad's lap rose to help her serve. Morgan inclined her head both in greeting and in thanks—she never seemed to waste a single gesture. When she leaned over the table to fill Bors' mug, the baby in his arms grabbed hold of her braid, and Tristan caught the small smile that briefly touched her lips. He also heard her speak for the first time, although he had to strain to do so.

"Your little one looks more like you every day," she mumbled, not quite meeting Bors' eyes, as she gently removed herself from the baby's grasp. Tristan could not place her accent, but she definitely was not a native Latin speaker.

At her words, Bors gave Lancelot a triumphant look.

"Hah! She says he looks like me!" Bors roared. And Tristan and the other knights chuckled. It was an ongoing joke between the two—Lancelot insisting that he had fathered the big knight's latest bastard and Bors threatening to hack his friend's cock off if he said it one more time.

Morgan did not react to the knights' mirth. With the help of Galahad's wench, she continued to serve the knights in silence, until she reached over to give Lancelot his plate of bread and cheese. The blonde was still in his lap, but that didn't stop Lancelot from covering Morgan's small hand with his own when she set down his plate.

The girl went utterly still and stared at his hand.

"Will you drop your asking price, pretty Morgan, and stay with me this night?" Lancelot's voice was deceptively soft, almost caressing. He ignored the stiffening blonde in his lap; his feral eyes were intent on the new girl, willing her to look at him.

Gawain's fist closed over his silver coin.

"You will not regret it, I assure you, " the dark knight said. Tristan had to admit that Lancelot had a fine, cultured voice. The kind of voice that could stoke a fire inside the most frigid of women.

Lancelot began to rub his thumb over the back of Morgan's hand. He was at his persuasive best now, so committed to his pursuit of the new girl that he did not seem to notice when the blonde wench rose and stalked away. It might have started out as a game for him, a means to taunt Gawain, but it was obvious to Tristan that Lancelot truly meant to have her.

At last, Morgan raised her eyes, and gave the dark knight a long, appraising look.

"You have no coin?" she asked him, her voice so low that Tristan could only read her lips.

Lancelot shook his head, a look of genuine regret coming to his face, then lifted her small hand to his mouth and kissed it. "No coin. But what do you say, Morgan? Will you say yes?" He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then, her wrist.

Tristan had to forcibly stop himself from scowling, and wondered that he should even care. She was only a whore, after all…

A whore who did not seem the least bit flattered or flustered by Lancelot's attention. Tristan sat forward in his chair and watched the girl through narrowed eyes as she gracefully took back her hand.

"I say _nay_," was her clear reply—louder than any previous words she had spoken. She was not rude. She did not even sound angry.

Instead, it was Lancelot who was angered enough by her refusal to lash out at her.

"You set too much value on yourself, girl," he told her roughly, and raked her slim form up and down with a dismissive look.

"I set nothing of the sort," she retorted, her voice flat and even. "My master sets the price for me. And it will be my back, not yours, that suffers his wrath when I fail to produce the required coins."

Lancelot's eyes widened and his face flushed a deep crimson when he understood her meaning.

Morgan was a slave. And in that calm, plainspoken way of hers, she had reminded them that not all whores served by choice.

Tristan watched with mild amusement as the other knights looked away in embarrassment. Gawain hastily pocketed his silver coin. Galahad's wench shook her head in disapproval, as if to say, "some things are better left unsaid."

The new girl had dampened their happy spirits.

But not Tristan's. Tristan wanted to laugh. He admired Morgan's audacity, her bluntness. He admired the cool, detached manner in which she spoke her devastating words. Above all else, he admired her self-control in the face of Lancelot's attempted seduction.

Tristan took a more practical, less sentimental view of her situation. Slavery was a fact of life in Roman society. He and his fellow knights were little more than glorified slaves, pressed into service before most of them had even grown hair one on their privates. The way he saw it, Morgan had a roof over her head and warm clothes to wear. She did not appear malnourished. And for all that talk about being beaten by her master, he very much doubted that the man would actually take a strap to her back—why damage the merchandise?

The other knights might feel ashamed to hire her now—at least for a while—but Tristan felt no such qualms. As Morgan started to walk past him with the empty tray, he tossed his own silver coin at her feet. She looked at it quizzically, perhaps thinking that he had dropped it by accident.

"There will be more later," he told her, leaning forward in his chair until their heads almost touched.

Those disconcerting eyes of hers met his up close for the second time that evening. They were really quite beautiful, Tristan thought—large and almond-shaped and so dark they appeared almost black. She had subtly lined them with kohl in the way of Eastern women—perhaps her one concession to vanity, perhaps under orders from her master. _Alluring_ eyes, Tristan decided, despite their vacant expression. He noticed the exact moment comprehension dawned inside of them—the moment she realized he meant to hire her. There was a flicker of…_something…_in their empty depths. Was it anger? Resignation? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it came.

Morgan shifted the serving tray to one hand and bent down to retrieve his coin. She carefully placed it inside the pocket pinned to her skirt. With a curt nod of acceptance, she muttered, "I will be back shortly," and continued on her way. She obviously had chores to finish at the tavern. Tristan understood this. In all probability, her master had agreed to let her work as a bar wench for a few hours each night free of charge, in exchange for the opportunity to ply her true trade among the patrons. It was a standard arrangement.

Tristan did not mind the wait; he was a patient man. The girl was his for the night, and that was all that mattered. He sat up straight again to find his comrades staring at him in silence. Lancelot eyed him with disgust, the others with unabashed curiosity. After all, it was not often that Tristan deigned to buy himself a whore.

Tristan slowly stood up and smiled. "Anyone want to throw some knives?"

It was a favorite game of theirs, throwing knives at a wooden post to see whose aim was truest. And Tristan _was _referring to the game, of course, though he had purposefully kept his words vague to bait his comrades. Lancelot, for one, looked ready to stick him with some blades.

No one replied right away, as the knights tried to figure out Tristan's meaning. But finally, Galahad stood up and said, "Sure, I'm game." And the competition was on.

For the next hour or so, while Morgan finished her work, Tristan and the other knights took turns killing a post. More often than not, whenever they played, Tristan emerged as the clear winner in the game, and tonight was no exception.

At last, he saw Morgan start to make his way toward him, and his body tensed in anticipation. As usual, her expression was cold and impassive, and her gaze was fixed on something far, far away. Tristan expected no different from her—it was partly _why _he had chosen her in the first place—but he felt a flicker of annoyance nonetheless, toward her _and_ toward himself for feeling it. When she was but a few short paces away, he threw his last knife of the evening. It came within a hair's breadth of her head—so close that he could see the loose tendrils from her braid flutter when the blade flew by on its way to the post. Morgan gasped in shock and belatedly jumped to one side. When she looked up at him, he saw raw, unmitigated fear on her face for a good long moment, before the familiar veil came down.

Fear was not the reaction he hoped to get from her tonight.

But it was a start.

With a satisfied smile, Tristan closed the distance between them, and gently grasped her by the back of the neck. The top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder.

"Come on, let's get out of here," he said, and propelled Morgan toward the open archway...


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING! This chapter is rated M for sexual content. It depicts sex for hire between two slightly disturbed people. Although there is no violence or SM-type stuff, it is neither pretty nor romantic. If you think this chapter might disturb or offend you, please do not read it. And please do not flame me on that account since I did give fair warning.**

**TRISTAN'S CHOICE**

**CHAPTER THREE**

Morgan's room, Tristan thought, was like the girl herself—spare, stark, and eerily serene, like a tomb. The warm, golden glow of the lamp she lit did nothing to soften the appearance of the bare stone walls and dull plank floor. Other whores—even slaves like her—had bright, erotic murals painted on their walls and ceilings. Other whores covered their windows and gaudy furnishings and floors with colorful silks and carpets woven in intricate designs. Morgan's room had only one rough mat by the door, and no windows.

A quick glance was all it took to reveal her meager possessions to him. A plain, double-wide bed stood in the far left corner, with a tarnished, unlit brazier a few paces away. A narrow table occupied the other corner, with the lamp, a water basin, viewing plate, hairbrush, and stick of kohl neatly arranged on top. Several lidded baskets were tucked beneath it. The only other furnishing in the room was a short, three-legged stool. Next to the door several pegs held a white linen shift, woolen cape, and simple homespun dress such as a peasant might wear.

Morgan's room could have belonged to a monk.

And yet Tristan found it strangely appealing. Its austerity suited his ascetic tastes and confirmed his earlier impressions of the girl.

Unlike the other whores' rooms he had visited, this one was not saturated with the thick, cloying smell of heavy perfume, cheap wine, and incense. Instead, a delicate floral scent had drifted toward him the moment he followed her inside and shut the door.

Tristan could actually _breathe_ inside Morgan's room.

As she busied herself adjusting the coverlet on the bed, his eyes searched for the source of the scent and found it half-hidden on top of the lintel. A spray of lavender tied with a red ribbon. Tristan's brows lifted in genuine surprise.

Morgan was a Pagan, and not just _any _Pagan. If the spray of lavender turned out to be what he thought it was, little Morgan dabbled in spellcasting.

He wondered that none of her other customers had turned her in for witchery, but he figured that they were probably too drunk on lust and ale to have noticed anything at all.

But _he_ had noticed, and she must have realized it. When they faced each other once again, he saw the wariness in her eyes, the slight stiffening of her body, and sought to reassure her.

"I am _no_ Christian, Morgan," he said with a brief, ironic smile and careless shrug.

She visibly relaxed and gave him a shy smile in return, then took a tentative step toward him.

"Let me remove your long shirt," she said. Her voice was a velvet murmur, though she was by no means trying to be seductive.

Yet seduce him she did. At her words, Tristan felt a restless stirring in his blood, an instant tightening of his loins. With every slow, measured step she took, a new and unexpected rush of heat surged through his veins. The depth and speed of his arousal astonished him.

Tristan was cold and aloof by nature, and he did not like to be touched. He did not like putting himself in the hands of another. Indeed, he never particularly enjoyed coupling with the tavern whores. If the truth be told, he preferred—more often than not—to give himself release rather than bed a woman.

But now, with her solemn eyes fixed on his face, Tristan realized just how much he wanted _this_ girl's hands on him. And not just her hands, but her mouth, and her tongue as well. He wanted her to touch and taste every inch of him.

He wanted to do the same to her.

He had known her for less than two hours, but some how, some way, Morgan had seeped under his skin. He did not question it; he did not need to. She was different from all the others. She was…_like him_.

As she drew closer, it occurred to him that he had not bathed in quite some time—three weeks at least, maybe longer. Tristan was not fastidious about his appearance or cleanliness—not like Lancelot and Galahad. He seldom bathed; he seldom felt the need to. He was a warrior and a scout—and he spent the better part of his days and nights far removed from the niceties of life. Far removed from anything _civilized_. Although he could no longer smell his own scent, he knew that he stunk of stale sweat and unwashed body, of horse and dung, and battle. And he experienced an unfamiliar pang of regret that she would be soiled by their coupling, even though she must have bedded far filthier men. Next time, he told himself—and it surprised him to realize that there would _be_ a next time—he would bathe especially for her.

When she finally reached him, her gaze lowered to his shirt, so she did not see the softening expression on his face, the sudden tenderness in his eyes.

She really was a lovely, lovely girl.

The desire coiling in his gut became an almost desperate need, and he started to lift his arms to embrace her, just as she loosened the first toggle on his long shirt. Loosened the first toggle—and wrinkled her small nose in distaste.

It was a fleeting, involuntary gesture—and it was gone in the space of a breath—but Tristan's hawk-like eyes caught it, and his arms froze.

He knew he stunk; he knew his clothes were just as filthy as the rest of him. But her brief reaction angered him nonetheless, and curbed his newfound ardor.

Tristan's mouth tightened into a straight line. Instead of embracing her, his hands whipped up and grabbed her shoulders, biting into her fragile flesh. "No," he said, then he pushed her roughly away.

She had wrinkled her nose at him in distaste. He obviously _disgusted_ her.

And Tristan no longer wanted her hands to touch him.

Oh, he still meant to have her, but whatever flicker of tenderness he had felt toward her was now extinguished. She was a whore, and she deserved to be treated no differently from the other whores he had bedded.

Morgan looked up at him in confusion, her palms held open in a question. She had no idea what she had done, he thought cynically. She had no idea what _he_ had almost done before he understood what she was about. She was a whore, _nothing more_. He needed to remember that.

"No," he repeated, and stepped back, putting further distance between them so that she could no longer reach out and touch him.

"I want to watch you undress instead." His voice was quiet, yet held an undertone of cold contempt that brought a small frown to her face.

Morgan stared at him for a long moment, before nodding her head. "As you wish."

She carefully removed the pocket that contained his coin and placed it on the table. When she turned back, she did not meet his eyes as she slowly began to undo the brass buttons on the shoulders and sleeves of her outer tunic. She let the garment fall and puddle around her feet, then unlaced the matching chemise underneath, at the same slow, deliberate pace. Her mind, and her spirit, were a thousand leagues away from him now, and he did not care. He told himself it was better that way. Still, he could not stop his sharp intake of breath when she slipped the chemise off her shoulders, and gracefully freed herself from its long, fitted sleeves. For the length of a heartbeat, she held the cloth modestly over her body before dropping her hands. The undergarment joined the tunic on the floor, and Tristan's spurt of cold anger subsided.

Without sparing him a glance, Morgan stepped out of her shoes and bent over to retrieve her discarded garments. After neatly folding them, she placed them on the stool, and he got a quick look at her backside. A new fire ignited inside of Tristan's body.

As his eyes frankly assessed her, he admitted to himself that, whore or not, she _was_ different from the others. Beneath the heavy folds of her red dress, Morgan was boyishly slim, with softly rounded breasts that beckoned to be caressed, and narrow hips that beckoned to be stroked. Her legs were long and coltish. And her skin…Her skin was pale and smooth and so translucent that he could see the faint tracery of veins on her breasts. Save for the fading imprint of his hands on her shoulders, she had no other marks that he could see. No bruises or blemishes, no scratches or scars—nothing at all to indicate that she bedded men for a living. No woman he ever knew had skin like that, no child. Only infants, from what he could recall of Bors' bastards. Morgan looked heartbreakingly young and innocent. _Unused._ He briefly wondered how old she was, and almost asked her, before ruthlessly quashing his curiosity.

Tristan wanted to bury himself inside of her, and that was all that mattered.

But he meant to get her ready first.

"I want to see you pleasure yourself," he told her, instantly drawing her gaze back to him. He nearly laughed at the shocked expression on her face. Poor little Morgan was used to the drunken louts at the tavern-—self-indulgent men with little imagination, and even less patience.

"I'm…I'm sorry…what?" she stammered.

"I said, I want to see you pleasure yourself," he repeated, carefully enunciating every word, as if he was speaking to a small child. "I want to watch you _touch_ yourself."

Morgan gaped like a lackwit; her eyes unconsciously entreated him. And he responded with a smug, dangerous smile. He had _disturbed_ her, just as she had disturbed him. Now that he had her attention, his relentless gaze roved up and down, and down and up, her naked body, before settling on her face again. His satisfaction increased tenfold when he noticed her heightened color.

"Do you understand what I am telling you to do?" he asked, in the same condescending tone. Part of him needed to humiliate her, but he was also genuinely concerned about her small size. He wanted her aroused before he entered her.

The tip of her pink tongue darted across her lips. "Yes," she whispered with a jerk of her head. Then she seemed to gather her courage and determination and in a louder voice said, "Very well."

Not for the first time that evening, Tristan admired how quickly she could regain her self-control.

She watched him with guarded eyes, as she raised her hands to her small breasts. Tristan's body clenched when she began to draw circles on the tender mounds with her fingers. Such delicate fingers on such delicate skin, going round and round in ever smaller circles until she was outlining, then caressing her nipples. He could see the pink tips pucker and harden into crested peaks under her gentle touch, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan.

Her hands slid slowly, sensuously, downward, tracing the gentle curves of her body. She kneaded her silken belly with both hands, back and forth as if it were bread dough, and playfully poked at her navel with her fingertips. Tristan almost forgot to breathe.

A soft blush now painted her body, and he recognized the first stirrings of her arousal. He stole a glance at her face, and was not surprised to see that her eyes had closed. Morgan had retreated into her own private world, and at his behest, had left him behind to watch...and need…and want. A muscle in Tristan's jaw began to tick uncontrollably, and his hands closed into fists to stop from touching her. The girl was going to be the death of him.

When her hands lowered further to rub her privates, he had to unlace the front of his pants to release his own engorged, throbbing manhood. She did not see him—her eyes remained shut. He licked his lips and watched, enthralled, as she played with her dark, springy curls and probed the tender folds with her fingers. It was not long before she had established a rhythm and her hips begin to rock softly. He grabbed himself beneath his shirt and stood spellbound. Despite his own urgent need, he enjoyed watching her be aroused. There was nothing lascivious about it, nothing overindulgent. She was young and beautiful and graceful. And he would have allowed her to go on for a while longer if not for the faint moan that escaped her lips.

He wanted Morgan wet and ready for him, but he did not want her to find release.

"Enough," he said, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears, and her eyes flew open. She immediately dropped her hands. Her gaze skittered downward to his erection, clearly visible beneath his long shirt.

"What is your pleasure now?" she asked politely. She was being cautious, he noted, unwilling to make any move without his approval. But he did not think she was afraid—smart, brave girl. Tristan wanted her pliant, and biddable, but not cowering.

He walked up to her, his aroused shaft jutting outward through his clothes like a banner before pressing into her naked belly. When they stood but a hair's breadth apart, he searched her face, waiting for her to flinch or wrinkle her nose or otherwise do something to show her distaste at his close proximity. But she did nothing. She stood utterly still and simply stared back with wide, expectant eyes. Whatever anger he might have felt for her became a distant memory.

And yet…he did not want her to touch him. He did not want to bed her in the manner he might have, had she not shown her disgust earlier.

Poor, little Morgan…If she did not already, she would hate him before the night was through. And she would join the ranks of the other wenches and whores who studiously avoided him.

"I will show you my pleasure, girl," he told her, with a brief, tight smile that never reached his eyes.

His hands gripped her shoulders and slowly turned her around, his shaft slithering around her midriff until it came to rest near the small of her back. He used his body to gently propel her to the foot of the bed, and then one hand moved to the back of her neck and forced her to lean over. He pressed her head into the mattress and she was compelled to use her arms to brace herself, as his other hand snaked around her middle and lifted her hips toward him. Her knees came to rest on the edge of the bed, and he used his own knee to spread them apart. Tristan remained standing behind her.

By now she would know what he intended. But she did not complain. She did not resist.

Her braid lay flung across the mattress, exposing her slender back, and Tristan fought the urge to run his hand down the delicate ridges of her spine. He fought the urge to squeeze the baby-smooth cheeks of her bottom. Instead, he lifted his shirt and shoved his throbbing shaft into her slick, exposed flesh in one swift thrust, and began his primitive dance. Morgan was surprisingly tight for a whore and it drove him wild. Hot, all-consuming passion pounded the blood through his heart and body and head, as he withdrew and thrust into her womanhood again and again and again. If she gasped or cried out, he did not hear her over the roaring in his ears.

It was animal rutting, pure and simple, and Tristan knew that all the whores hated it. It demeaned them, made them into something _less_ than what they already were. And so he was truly astounded when Morgan began to meet him thrust for thrust, when her hips began to buck up and down in rhythm with his. Out of its own volition he found his hand sliding down from her midriff to cup her privates. He pressed the heel of his palm into her pubic bone, and his fingers rubbed and tapped her most sensitive areas, even as he continued to pound into her, filling every inch of her womanhood.

Morgan moaned out loud with pleasure, and this time Tristan heard her. And his male ego swelled. He had never cared one whit what other whores felt—to him, they were little more than convenient bodies to be used and discarded. But suddenly, for reasons he did not fully understand, he _needed_ to do right by her.

"I want…I want…" she panted, turning her head sideways so that he could now see her face.

Tristan increased the pressure of his fingers, rubbing her roughly. "Is this what you want?" he grunted, and watched fascinated as her lovely features twisted and contorted with lust. His own face was tight, beaded with perspiration, his body so tense it seemed to be made of steel. He could only take short, ragged breaths.

His was a raw act of possession, and hers of surrender, and they both rode the hot tide of passion together, consumed by aching need and mindless pleasure. Until at last, Tristan's release was at hand. He closed his eyes and let his senses take him. Fierce and violent, his climax suddenly burst upon him, tearing Morgan's name from his lips in a stark, primitive cry. A cry that was instantly met by Morgan's own scream as she convulsed beneath him. Wave after wave of fiery sensation swept over them, and through them, as savage tremors mercilessly shook their bodies, and slowly subsided.

Exhausted, Tristan collapsed on top of her, knocking her small body flat on the bed. He was mentally and physically spent. Had he really cried out her name? Tristan could hardly believe it. And had she truly experienced the "little death" along with him? Whore or not, he did not think she had faked it. _What had just happened here?_

Morgan whimpered beneath him, and he realized that his weight was hurting her. He quickly rolled over and onto his back. His clothes and his body were drenched in sweat.

He shook his hair from his eyes and turned his head to face her, a thousand questions roiling inside of him. But Morgan's own eyes were closed. She lay quietly on her stomach, her naked body moist and quivering. Was it from cold? Or was it an aftereffect of their coupling? Tristan reached over and folded the coverlet over her slight form. And still she did not look at him.

He studied her and wondered what she was feeling. What she was thinking. Then he nearly laughed at his stupidity.

She was a whore; she wasn't paid to think or feel. She was paid to be good in bed—and she _was _good. She was the best he had ever had.

Tristan reached over again. He captured a stray curl that had fallen over her cheek and tucked it behind her ear; then, because he could not help himself, he softly caressed the back of her head. And, finally, Morgan opened her eyes.

Those eyes did not belong to a whore.

They were wet with unshed tears, and wild with wonder and yearning and heartbreak—and a dozen other emotions he could not name. Emotions he had never felt, emotions he had no business feeling. Morgan's heart was laid bare before him—a fragile, beautiful offering—and he could not take it. _He could not take it_…

Her vulnerability made _him_ vulnerable. And _that_ he would not allow.

"Morgan, I cannot be what you need me to be," he told her gently, as his finger trailed first one and then another tear down her cheek. "I am not…"

She pressed her hand against his mouth and did not let him finish. "You are what you are, and I accept that. I expect nothing."

Tristan took hold of her hand and kissed it, like Lancelot had done a few hours earlier.

But Tristan's was not a kiss of seduction. His was a kiss of apology. A kiss of _compassion_—an emotion so alien to his nature that at first he did not recognize it for what it was.

A slender delicate thread had begun to form between them this evening, and Tristan was about to break it.

He released Morgan's hand and abruptly rose to his feet, stepping away from the bed—and from her. His back was rigid, inflexible. "I will hire you when I can," he told her coolly, as he finished tying the laces of his pants. He did not look at her again.

Before he left her stark, silent room, he tossed a few more coins on the floor...

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Among the ancient Celts, lavender was used in love spells and in magical charms to bring peace, joy, and healing to the home. The color red of the ribbon symbolized health, energy, strength, sexual potency, will power, and the ability to conquer fear. **


	5. Chapter 5

**THANK YOU TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! Please continue to read and leave feedback, as that will make me a better writer. **

**An AUTHOR'S NOTE will appear at the end of the chapter. You may wish to read it first. (Then again, you may not!) **

TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER FOUR

The sun was riding low in the western sky, and Tristan knew he would never reach the next village in time. Tonight he would camp in the woods. He did not mind sleeping out of doors—in fact, he preferred it. He had little use for walls or desire for such confinement. He had little need of a soft bed or the small comforts that meant so much to weaker men.

But a hot meal would have been welcome—and he dared not risk a fire. In the past week he had seen too many fresh signs of Woads south of Hadrian's Wall. Seen the signs, but not seen the Woads themselves. When they traveled in small numbers, the native tribesmen were all but invisible, even to him. Tristan suspected that they were scouts, and that a raid was in the works.

He was still a day's ride away from Camboglanna, and had it been a full-moon night, he would have made a brief stop at the village he knew was about two leagues away, then continued on. But the last two nights had fallen thick and black around him like a cloak, and tonight would be little different. He would not risk injury to his horse by riding in the dark.

The Sarmatian steed had served him faithfully for over fifteen years now, and was as much a part of Tristan as his arms and his legs. The two understood each other in ways that few people could. Their bond was stronger than that of a warrior and his horse. It was an intimacy born of solitude—of long days and nights spent in the wilds with no one but each other for company. No one but each other and a red-and-brown hawk.

As they neared the darkling trees, Tristan gave a low whistle. To an untrained ear, the sound was indistinguishable from the call of some woodland bird. But upon hearing it, his hawk suddenly appeared over the rise of the nearest hill. The scout held out his arm and the beautiful bird swooped down and perched on his leather-bound wrist.

"Where've you been, girl, eh? Where've you been?" he said in a soothing voice laced with genuine affection, as he reached into his bag to give the hawk a piece of jerky.

As much as a man like Tristan could love anyone or anything, he loved his horse and his hawk. They shared an untamed fervor in the blood, a freedom of spirit that no Roman conscription could ever cage.

Although it was barely visible in the waning light, Tristan unerringly guided his horse down a game trail that led them into the deep woods, until they reached a small clearing and a spring-fed pool. The clearing and pool were surrounded by a thick stand of oaks with elaborate runes carved on their ancient trunks. This was a sacred grove—a place of worship from a distant past—forbidden to the natives, possibly even forgotten. Once this had been Woad territory, long before the Romans invaded, but now it was Tristan's. Over the years, he had used this campsite on many occasions, and not once had he seen signs of human habitation, save for those he himself had left behind.

He dismounted with the hawk still on his arm, as the horse bowed his head to drink. In a nearby tree, an owl screeched and the hawk tensed and flapped her red wings, ready to take flight. Tristan chuckled and threw his head back as her wings buffeted his cheeks. And then, he quickly calmed her down with a few soft clucks and a surprisingly gentle hand—soothing the ruffled feathers on her head and back.

"And where did you think you were going? Hmm?" he said, and flicked his finger beneath her beak before finally settling her on a low-hanging branch. "You be a good girl and stay."

In truth, it was of little consequence whether she did or not. The hawk always came back to him. _Always._ From the very first it had been so—even when he was training her. He never needed to hood or cage her; he never needed to bind her legs in any way. _Like_ recognized _like_. And the hawk and Tristan were kindred spirits.

She would allow no one but Tristan to touch her. She responded to no one else's command. And if another knight ever got too close for her comfort, well…Tristan figured it was only natural for the hawk to react like the bird-of-prey that she was. He fed her another morsel from his belt bag.

As he turned back to unsaddle his horse, his eyes alighted upon a familiar patch growing among the oaks on the far side of the pool. He recognized the spikes of lilac-purple flowers, now gone gray in the dusk. He breathed in deeply and caught the delicate floral scent among the more pungent odors of the surrounding forest.

_Lavender. _

It was the scent of the girl's room. It was _her_ scent as well, he knew, though he had barely gotten close enough to sniff her skin. After their heated encounter two weeks ago, he ruthlessly purged her from his mind and kept her out as he went about his business. At the time it seemed a prudent idea. He was put off by what he had seen in her eyes.

It was funny that the patch of lavender should bring her to mind now. It was funny that his loins should suddenly stir at the mere thought of her. She meant nothing to him. And yet…she had pleased him well, and he had pleased her—much to his surprise. Tristan smiled as he loosened the straps that held his quiver to the saddle.

Morgan appeared to be a smart, sensible girl. She would guard her heart well. He removed the quiver and his saddlebags and lay them on the ground.

And it _had_ been two weeks since he hired her. Long enough for his message to have sunk in. He unfastened the girth straps and removed the saddle, then retrieved his last apple from one of the bags and returned to his horse.

"So what do you think?" he asked, in a low voice, as he stroked the long dappled neck. The horse turned his head and pressed it against Tristan's chest, searching for his treat. The scout slid one hand up and down the bony face and fed him the apple.

"Think maybe I should pay the tavern another visit?" The horse snorted—not in response to the question, surely, but Tristan laughed nonetheless. "Yeah, I do too."

That decision made, he stepped away from his horse and took out his own meal of beef jerky. While Tristan quietly chewed, he stared at the still waters of the pool and drank in the cool, misty air of the approaching night. He did not hobble his horse, or tie the reins to a tree. Tristan knew that when he awoke at dawn, his faithful companion would be no more than ten paces away from where he had left him.

As the dark closed in around them, crickets and other insects began their nightly serenade. A mouse or some other rodent scurried in the leaf litter near his saddle. And the owl screeched again. His hawk remained alert—he could see the last of the light catch her dark eyes as she cocked her head toward the offending sound. And his horse began to chomp on the water violets at the pool's edge.

Tristan was not a religious man, nor was he superstitious. But he respected the workings of the natural world, and he respected the serene beauty of this sacred place. As he lay down on a bed of fallen leaves and acorns, he embraced the peace of wild things and instantly fell asleep…

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By late afternoon the following day, Tristan found himself riding through the large wooden gates of Camboglanna. No one shouted a greeting to him, and no one waved a friendly hand though a few Roman guards nodded curtly as he passed. Had the other knights been with him, they would have soon found themselves surrounded by a babbling gaggle of excited women and children and news-hungry men. But this never happened when the scout rode in alone, and he preferred it that way. Though—perhaps because she had crept inside his head yesterday evening and stayed there—he suddenly imagined Morgan waiting for him by the wrought-iron fence of the stableyard, where Vanora and her sizeable brood liked to welcome Bors home.

He shook the unlikely picture from his mind, and followed the cobbled main street until he reached the large stable that doubled as the knights' armory. Though there were grooms aplenty at this time of day, Tristan—like his comrades—preferred to take care of his own horse. Like all Sarmatian cavalry before them, the Knights of the Round Table believed that when a horse served a warrior with steadfast devotion and courage, the warrior should in turn serve the horse by personally seeing to the animal's needs.

This the scout did, after he settled the hawk on her customary perch. A boy brought a bucket of oats for which Tristan muttered a quick "thanks." Then he set to work. He removed the saddle, bags, and bridle and gave them to the boy, and began to thoroughly brush his steed down.

It was always a sensual pleasure for Tristan—the brushing down of his horse's smooth hide and the feel of the strong, rippling muscles underneath. But this time it was even more pleasant, and more sensual. All the while he brushed, Morgan's solemn face and pale naked form invaded his thoughts. Now that he had decided to hire her for the night, his own traitorous body was playing tricks on his mind. Tristan smiled ruefully; he should have been annoyed instead. But, in truth, he looked forward to being inside of her again too much to even care.

Then another thought occurred to him. He glanced out the stable's open doors to check on what remained of daylight. Yes, there was still plenty of time to finish here, give Arthur his report…_and_ take a proper bath before heading to the tavern. Satisfied, Tristan nodded his head, then almost immediately shook it in amused disbelief.

"I'm behaving no better than our pretty boys," he muttered to his horse.

The "pretty boys" were Lancelot and Galahad. When they were in residence at the fort, Tristan reckoned they spent hours each day bathing and primping for the wenches and whores who—with the exception of Morgan—were far from clean themselves.

At last he put the brush back on its peg. He checked his horse's hooves for any lodged pebbles and debris, and spread some more hay on the stall's floor from the bundle in the corner. When he was done, he picked up his weapons and with a final pat to the horse's back, left the stall. By now, most of the grooms had gone for the night. Tristan stored his bow, quiver and scimitar in the armory, together with his armor but only after he had carefully wiped it down with an oilcloth. Just because he was in a hurry to bed Morgan did not mean that he would hurry through his tasks.

The main street of Camboglanna was almost empty when he finally ventured out. With sunset approaching, the shops and marketplace were now closed. Most of the tradesmen and farmers were back home for supper. Only a few stragglers remained chatting in the porticos and porches of closed shops, perhaps, Tristan mused, reluctant to return to their shrewish wives. And save for a handful of guards at the gate and another handful up on the ramparts, the Roman soldiers too were in their barracks, eating and washing and biding their time before the tavern re-opened to the nighttime crowd.

Tristan turned right as he passed the westernmost wall of the stable. It was the only other paved street in Camboglanna and it led north past the tavern and several cross alleys—including the one where Morgan's room was located—until it ended at the knights' estate and Hadrian's Wall. It was still too early for tavern traffic, and the street was deserted except for some urchins playing at war—boys armed with a motley assortment of wooden swords and broomstick spears and barrel lid shields. They ran from alleyway to alleyway ahead of him, laughing and hooting and occasionally cussing at each other. The scout recognized two of Bors' bastards in the pack.

As he idly watched the boys fight their mock battle, Tristan pondered his latest scouting trip. It was apparent to him that Rome's impending withdrawal from Britain had emboldened the native tribesman. More likely than not, the knights and fort soldiers would be fighting the Woads within a week, two at the most. The scout had already warned the villages he passed to prepare for possible raids. There would be killing, and burning, and plenty of it. Arthur had expected as much, but the news would trouble him nonetheless. It would trouble all of the other knights—whose freedom from Rome was so close at hand. But it did not trouble Tristan.

While he wanted his freedom on principle, in his heart he had always been a free man—a free man who _lived_ to fight battles on behalf of others. If not for Rome, then for a private citizen of Rome. Tristan was not particular. He might even fight for the Woads once the Romans left, though in truth, he rather enjoyed killing them. Their slim, naked bodies—tattooed and painted blue—made appealing targets for his bow and his blade.

Ahead of him, the boys ducked into the dirt alleyway that led to Morgan's room.

Tristan smiled a predatory smile. Thoughts of Morgan tonight and of the battle soon to come stirred his blood while he walked, and put him in as a happy a mood as he had ever been.

Suddenly, a cacophony of angry shouts came from the alleyway. He had no trouble recognizing the angriest voice, though he had only heard it raised once before—when she cried out at the end of their coupling. He sprinted to the alley's entrance and one quick glance confirmed his suspicions. Morgan was shouting down the pack of street urchins. Her small body and both fists were clenched in rage. And although she was partially turned away from him, what he could see of her face was flushed a deep crimson.

"How dare you? _How dare you?_" she shrieked, as she grabbed first one and then another wooden sword and threw them behind her.

Tristan eyed the boys with cold speculation. Had they_ actually _tried to attack her? He could believe it of Bors' sons. The scout's brow furrowed into a dangerous scowl. He was halfway down the alley when Morgan shifted, and he saw the prone body of a dog half-hidden by her homespun skirts. Her outrage was over a _dog_?

"It's only a bloody dog, Morgan!" Bor's son—Gilley was it?—confirmed it.

"I'll give you bloody!" The girl smacked him hard on the head. Tristan's scowl turned into a comical look of surprise. "You just wait till I tell your mother!"

"And you just wait till I tell our father!" This from Bors' other son. "You're just a stinking whore!" he continued and earned a loud slap on the face for his trouble.

"Anyone else?" she snarled, threatening them with a raised fist. The boys gaped at her and said nothing.

Tristan could hardly believe it. Quiet, self-possessed little Morgan had turned into a crazed termagant right before his eyes.

"Get out of here, you little monsters! Get out!" she now hissed, and choked on her last words. Her body was shaking violently.

The boys seemed more than ready to comply. Before anyone could see him, Tristan ducked into a recessed doorway and shook his head in consternation. All this was over a_ dog? _Was it perhaps her _pet_? That would explain her fiery reaction, of course, though it still surprised him. She had appeared to be so disciplined, so self-contained…or maybe not. He recalled their passionate coupling.

The retreating boys ran by him in quick succession and did not notice his presence, except for Gilley who briefly stopped and stared at him with owl eyes before scurrying after his playmates. Tristan was about to make a hasty retreat himself when he heard her muffled sob.

He sneaked a peak at her from his hiding place. Morgan now crouched beside the wounded dog and he got his first good look at the animal.

The dog _was_ severely injured, its rib cage rising and falling in slow, jerky spasms. He had seen death enough times to know that the dog was taking its last labored breaths. But Morgan did not seem to realize this.

"I am going to save you," she said in a tremulous voice, and Tristan frowned. How could she possibly believe that?

He quashed the urge to go to her—to tell her it was a lost cause and carry the dying animal away. Why should _he_ care? It was none of his business what she did with the dog. But as he started to head back toward the street, Morgan began to chant in some old Brittonic tongue. And Tristan came to a standstill. Her voice was soft, and not meant to carry far, but he had keener senses than most and could hear her clearly. Whatever language she was singing in, it was certainly not the one spoken by the local Celts or Woads. He slowly turned, and retraced his steps to the recessed doorway where he could watch her unobserved in the fading light.

Morgan withdrew a small knife from her belt. She seemed calmer now, in control of her emotions, as she held the knife above her head and continued to chant. Did she mean to end the animal's suffering? Mercy killing was something Tristan understood well—after all, was he not a merciful killer?

But Morgan did not kill the dog.

To his astonishment, she lowered the knife to the ground and with its point traced a circle around the injured animal and herself. For a brief moment, as she was circling with the knife, she faced him and he drew back into the shadows, but not before he saw the cold, steely determination in her eyes. It was a look that spoke of her willingness to complete the task at hand _come what may_. It was a look he had seen many times before on the battlefield—on doomed men who continued to fight until they breathed their very last. When his time came, Tristan knew he would die with such a look on his face.

The girl must be mad. Should any Roman happen by and see the circle or hear her chanting from the street, she would be instantly arrested for witchery—and all for the sake of a dog that would soon be dead. Tristan felt a cold, deep anger seep through his veins. Now he watched the street as much as he watched her, his hand curled tightly around the hilt of his knife. He watched the shuttered windows and closed doors in the alleyway too, for any sign that someone else might be looking and listening.

Morgan did not pause in her song when she set down her blade and removed a pink stone from her pocket. She did not pause in her song when she gently placed it on the animal's body together with her hands. And Tristan suddenly realized that he could recognize one name that she kept repeating over and over. _Suleviae. _A trio of mother goddesses worshipped by the Celts—and outlawed by the Roman Christians. A few years back the monks at Avallana had uncovered a secret shrine dedicated to Suleviae in a nearby farming village. Several women were killed—trampled and hacked to pieces by Roman cavalry as they tried to escape into the woods. Tristan knew because he had been there.

Morgan was reckless beyond compare, and utterly, utterly mad. Once again, Tristan stifled the urge to go to her—this time to haul her bodily away from the dying dog or at the least kill the wretched animal himself, and erase that incriminating circle.

_Why should he bother? Why should he care?_ he wondered. He owed her nothing. She _meant_ nothing. If he was smart—and Tristan liked to think that he was—he would slip out of the alley and go home, and not bother with a bath or the tavern or _her_.

And yet…he remained right where he was, knife in hand, ready to protect her if he must.

He had enjoyed her once, and he wanted to enjoy her again. For that reason alone—he told himself—he would play the role of lookout while she played the role of lunatic.

He was eyeing the gloomy street for passersby when Morgan's chant abruptly ended. The animal must be dead. Tristan shifted his attention back to her. She was standing now, still partially turned away from him, looking down at the dog. The circle was gone. As he watched, she stepped around the animal and smiled.

"Come," she coaxed, with an outstretched hand.

And to Tristan's profound shock and disbelief, the dog rose on steady legs and wagged its tail.

Morgan lifted her head and looked down the alleyway. Her eyes skimmed the shadowy recesses on either side and seemed to settle for a moment on the darkened doorway where he hid. His body tensed, but she simply turned away. And with the dog in tow—now spry and bouncy like a young pup—she climbed the narrow stairs to her room.

Tristan remained frozen in his hiding place.

_What **had** he witnessed here?_

The dog should be dead.

Tristan was not superstitious by nature. And while he—like most Pagans—did not scoff at the power of magic—_not exactly_—for the most part, he viewed it as nothing more than harmless tomfoolery.

But this went far beyond simple, harmless spellcasting. It went far beyond anything he had ever seen.

_The dog should be dead._

And Morgan…Morgan was a bloody _sorceress_.

"Gods," he muttered through gritted teeth, as he rubbed his face with his hands. Tristan stepped out into the alleyway and glanced up at the closed door of Morgan's room. "They will crucify her…"

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**HISTORICAL NOTES: 1) The Woads (Picts) often fought completely nude. As depicted in the film, they also tattooed themselves and painted their bodies blue with a dye made from the woad plant. 2) In Celtic lore, pink stones (e.g. pink quartz, agate) were believed to have healing properties. 3) Suleviae was an actual trio of mother goddesses worshipped by the ancient Celts, with shrines scattered throughout Britain and continental Europe. These goddesses were closely associated with healing. As a fiction writer, I used a little bit of artistic license in writing this chapter—as far as I know, no Pagans were ever killed by Christians for worshipping Suleviae.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: in the first part of this chapter, I attempted to show a different, slightly "softer" side to Tristan—a side that seldom emerges in the presence of other people, who view him, for the most part, as a cold-hearted killer, and little else. I do not think the "softer" side I presented here conflicts with that darker part of him. Instead, I believe it complements it. Individuals are composites of both good and bad traits, and Tristan _does_ have some goodness hidden inside of him. He is a true creature of Nature—a wild child—and his cold, detached manner around people, and seeming lack of conscience, are best understood in this context.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This will be a quick chapter in between two longer ones. Having Tristan witness Morgan's magical abilities so early in their "relationship" was bound to raise a lot of questions—in Tristan's mind as well as yours, dear readers. Through this chapter I hope to address some of those questions—and possibly raise a few more. Once again, I ask you to please read and review. And if you have any suggestions for the story or concerns regarding my characterization of our "hero," do bring them to my attention!**

**A BIG THANK YOU to my beta Kris and all of my reviewers. **

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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER FIVE

Tristan almost did not go to the tavern that night. Not because he was afraid of Morgan—though he was not above admitting to himself that he felt a certain respect for the magical power she wielded. He would be foolish not to. But fear? No. He did not, would not, fear the girl.

Tristan almost did not go because, as much as he wanted to bed her, he also wanted to avoid complications. And becoming entangled with someone like her portended all kinds of complications—even when such entanglement was strictly carnal. Already, he could feel the first sticky thread of the intricate web that was Morgan weave itself around him, and ensnare him: _he knew her secret._ And for some reason he could not fully understand—whether it be their one night of shared intimacy or his unwitting admiration for her defiance of the Romans—Tristan felt honor-bound to keep that secret.

So he tried to talk himself out of going. He tried while he stood in Arthur's apartments and gave his commander a precise, detailed account of his reconnaissance mission. He tried as he joined a much-surprised Galahad and an even more surprised Lancelot in the estate's expansive and luxurious bath. And he kept trying when he left them still soaking in the steamy water and went to his bedchamber to put on clean clothes and eat his evening meal.

Tristan tried to talk himself out of going even as his feet carried him out the door and down the cobbled street toward the tavern. In the end the pull of the girl proved too much, and he decided to just go with it—for now.

As he walked, the thought occurred to him that she might have ensorcelled him, but he instantly discarded that possibility. He was under no illusions about Morgan, or his relationship with her.

If she became too much of a complication—if she became a problem—he simply would kill her.

He had never hit or battered or otherwise hurt a woman, but he had killed plenty in battles against the Woads.

Up ahead the bright lights of the tavern came into view, but instead of heading toward them straight away, Tristan moved unseen into the shadows. He stopped at the dark street corner where he had first seen Morgan two weeks earlier, and she had seen him. At the time, her keen perception had surprised him, but now that he knew the truth about her, it made perfect sense. And it unsettled him to accept that he would never be able to hide from her like he did from the rest of the world.

It unsettled him—and thrilled him at the same time. Should they ever cross swords—in a manner of speaking—Morgan would make a worthy adversary.

He stood in the shadows—alert and silent and utterly still—and stalked her with his eyes as she gracefully moved from one end of the open-air tavern to another, serving wine and ale to the early evening crowd. She seldom spoke to the customers, and she never smiled at them—and that pleased him. Sometimes she would disappear behind an arch or column or a too-tall man, and Tristan waited patiently for her to reappear without moving from his spot. Not for the first time, he realized that he enjoyed watching her.

She no longer wore the plain homespun of the afternoon but rather her red Roman dress—her whoring dress, Tristan now knew. The color and severity of the garment suited her, and he apparently was not the only one to think so. He saw other eyes follow her slender form across the open room—admiring, yearning eyes that belonged to men still sober enough to appreciate quality when they saw it. She out-classed each and every one of them.

For a few, short-lived moments, he let his curiosity get the better of him and he wondered at her past. How could someone like her end up a slave and a prostitute? With her gift of healing magic, she would find welcome—and a safe haven—among any number of pagan tribes in Britain. Certainly the Woads to the north would take her in. Did she not realize this? At the very least, she could bewitch her master into freeing her without him ever being the wiser. Weak, unsuspecting men were susceptible to such manipulation. And in Tristan's opinion, brothel keepers were little more than leeches and bullies who preyed on forgotten, unwanted young women.

The scout lowered his gaze and shook his head in bewilderment. The girl was an enigma—one which, he now reminded himself, he was determined _not_ to unravel. So he quelled his curiosity and shifted his attention back to the tavern—only to see her stop and say a few words to Gawain, after the knight grabbed her arm and pulled her close. And it _was_ Gawain—there was no mistaking the hair, though his back was to the street. Tristan nodded his head thoughtfully, as he watched Morgan briefly pat the knight's shoulder and disappear behind another column. The golden knight might have been asking for more ale or some bread and cheese, but somehow Tristan doubted it.

Perhaps it was time for him to come out of the shadows. Perhaps it was time for him to stake his own claim. But no sooner did he take a step forward than Morgan appeared at the arched entrance of the tavern and turned to face his corner on the far side of the street.

Despite the darkness that surrounded him, her large, solemn eyes immediately locked onto his. Tristan drew in a sharp breath, and his tall, black-clad figure stiffened and stilled. He should have expected it—and truly it came as no surprise. Yet, once again, it unsettled him. She unsettled him.

For a while the two of them remained frozen in place, neither making a move toward the other, neither speaking. Only watching, but what she could actually see of him he did not know.

There was an air of isolation about her person that struck a chord inside of him, as she stood beneath the stone arch with the bright lights and revelry behind her and the dark, silent street in front. Her expression was carefully guarded—almost serene—but her hands clutched her heavy skirts so tightly that Tristan could see the white of her knucklebones from where he stood. Morgan was afraid. And well she should be, he thought, if she had indeed spotted him in the alleyway earlier that afternoon.

When at last she took a step toward him, Tristan also moved forward. They slowly walked toward one another until they met midway in the dimly lit street. No more than a pace separated them now. He could feel the heat from her body; it warmed his insides. He could feel the tension rise between them—a living, breathing thing—even as she casually leaned her head back and stared into his eyes with an equanimity he knew she did not feel.

She searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to reach into his thoughts, then finally said, "You saw." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

It was not a question and Tristan knew she referred to the incident in the alleyway.

"I saw."

Morgan bit her lip. "Are you going to tell?" And he almost smiled at how childlike she sounded. He looked at her with enigmatic eyes and did not immediately answer. She cleared her throat and repeated more firmly, "Are you going to tell?"

_The Romans?_ _Never_, he thought to himself, but said, "Not unless you give me cause."

She let out a slow breath, and released her skirts from her hands' stranglehold.

"I have never hurt an innocent person," she told him. She sounded calm and confident now, yet her eyes beseeched him to believe her. They both knew he held her life in his hands.

"What about Gilley?" Tristan asked, deliberately misunderstanding her. Bors' son was only a young boy, after all, and Morgan had hit him hard.

She flinched at the reminder, and amended her words. "I have never hurt an innocent with magic."

This time Tristan did smile. Those were telling words indeed. _She had never hurt an innocent_ _with magic._ He leaned ever so close until his nose almost touched hers. "And the guilty?" he asked softly.

He had meant the question more as a joke, really, and expected her to take it as such. Instead, Morgan's eyes went wide, and for an instant, he saw a wild, panicky look come over her face before she lowered her head and stepped back. When she met his eyes again a moment later, the guarded expression was back in place. She said nothing.

He could almost have imagined it—the panicky look was so fleeting—but Tristan knew better. He had his answer, and her continued silence confirmed it. Morgan might balk at hurting the innocent with sorcery, but the guilty might not be so lucky. Once more he reluctantly found himself wondering what she was doing here in Camboglanna. Why did she remain a whore and a slave? And who might she consider "the guilty" to be if not her master?

Tristan studied her face with curious intensity for answers that did not come—answers to questions he would never ask her directly. He did not want complications.

She lifted her chin a notch—was it in fear? Or defiance?—when he closed the distance between them and raised his hands to her shoulders. Her body instantly stiffened when he touched her, and the soft skin of her face tightened over delicate cheeks. Still she did not speak. Tristan knew that she was bracing herself for his next words.

"Your secret is safe with me," he told her at last, emphasizing each word with a gentle squeeze from his long fingers. The ends of her collarbones felt fragile beneath his hands—he could probably snap them into pieces without much effort. But why would he ever want to? Why would he ever want to when what he really wanted, was to pull down her bodice and run his fingers and his tongue down their narrow length?

"_You_ are safe with me," he reassured her further. Even if she wasn't.

Morgan visibly relaxed at his words and offered him a tentative smile. "Thank you."

Tristan smiled back and let go of her slender shoulders, as he shook free of his disturbing thoughts. And then, because he had wondered earlier about the animal, he asked, "Was it yours?"

Surprisingly, she understood him. "The dog? No…just a stray."

_Just a stray?_ "You risk much for something you don't love," he observed.

"So do you. Every day." Morgan countered, and he quirked an eyebrow in surprise. She tilted her head to one side and eyed him quizzically. "Tell me, do you love the Romans? And the cause you fight for? Do you even love your commander and your fellow knights? I think perhaps not. Yet you risk your life for them every single day."

She was not mistaken, Tristan conceded. But it was different for him. While he might not love them, he shared a certain camaraderie with Arthur and the other knights. And if that was not reason enough to risk his life, there was always the other, more important reason. He loved the thrill of the kill.

"I am a warrior, Morgan." He always would be.

"I am too," she affirmed. "Not all battles are fought with swords and spears, my Lord Knight."

_Indeed._ Tristan slowly nodded his head, and tried to ignore the small stab of pleasure he felt at the way she had addressed him.

Then she gave him a small, ironic smile. "I may be the lowliest of slaves…yet, unlike you, I get to choose my own battles. And I _chose _to fight for that stray," she told him in a quiet voice.

Tristan's eyes narrowed. He had underestimated her yet again. Morgan might not talk much, but when she did, she did not waste her time on frivolities. Behind her subdued, unassuming manner, she possessed a keen intelligence and independence of spirit that he could only admire—not to mention a fiery temper. _The lowliest of slaves?_ He no longer believed it.

And because he honestly wanted to know—and against his better judgment—he now asked, "But why did you choose?"

Morgan did not answer right away. Instead, she dropped her gaze to his shirt, and busily chewed on her lip. Tristan knew she was debating what to tell him, and he regretted asking.

_Complications_. He could almost feel the next sticky thread wrap itself around him.

She sighed, loudly enough for him to hear her exhale, then looked up again. Her gaze was steady and her voice calm and resolute when she replied, "I thought that dog more worthy of life than I do most people. Does that shock you?"

"No," he said simply. And it did not, coming from her. He understood Morgan, because he himself felt that way about his horse and his hawk. He himself felt that way about people. He did not like people as a rule, let alone love them, and she obviously did not either. He recalled what she had said earlier about never hurting an innocent, and almost asked her, "Who are the guilty?" but refrained. He had asked enough questions already—too many, in fact.

Tristan came here with a purpose in mind, and it was time he followed through with it. His eyes boldly roamed her slight figure before settling on her face again. He let them smolder and let her see—there was no mistaking his intentions. He heard her gasp in surprise, and a brief, satisfied smile tipped the corners of his mouth. He withdrew a coin from his pocket and took hold of her small hand with both of his. Then he placed the coin in her palm and gently closed her fingers around it one by one, and caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

She made no move to reclaim her hand or return the coin, but shook her head regretfully. "I cannot. I am already claimed."

"Who?" he asked—as if he didn't already know.

"The golden-haired knight."

_Gawain. _Tristan let go of her hand. "Keep my coin, Morgan. Return his. I will be waiting in the corner for you to finish your work." It would be a long wait—hours possibly—but as a scout, he was used to it and if he could settle his business with her here, then there was no need to enter the tavern at all. He preferred to stand alone and watch her from the shadows.

Morgan quickly nodded her agreement. Whether she felt indebted to him for his silence or actually favored him over Gawain, Tristan did not know. When he started to walk away from her, she grabbed the sleeve of his black linen shirt. He stopped but did not turn around, and she stepped closer until she was almost pressed against his back.

"Why me?" she whispered, and he twisted his head so that he could look down at her upturned face. Her expression gave nothing away beyond simple curiosity, but there was an earnest, pleading quality to her voice that she could not quite hide. It disturbed him.

"Why would you want to, knowing what you do about me?" she insisted.

_Why, indeed._ The girl _reeked _of complications.

"Do not make more of this than it is, Morgan. A man has needs—and your body suits me," he told her bluntly. He looked away, but not before he saw the raw hurt enter her dark eyes. He did not tell her that he almost always took care of his own needs—and that tonight was all about _want_.

Then, as he resumed his walk toward the corner, he added, as an afterthought, "You do not frighten me, girl. You do not frighten me…"

By the time he disappeared once again into the shadows and turned around, she was back inside the tavern. And as his eyes followed her graceful figure from one table to the next, he smiled grimly and reflected that his short interlude with Morgan was quite possibly the longest conversation he had ever had with a woman in his life…

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	7. Chapter 7

**WARNING: This chapter is rated M for sexual content. The scene is not disturbing, but it is quite explicit. If you think it might bother you, please do not read the chapter, and please do not flame me on that account. Thank you!**

**DEAR READERS: This chapter is bound to raise more questions in your minds about Morgan's past and her motives, but rest assured. Most of your questions will be answered in the next few chapters. Thank you to all of my reviewers. Please know that your feedback truly motivates me to write, so keep reviewing. Finally, I owe a HUGE thank you to my beta, Kris. This was not an easy chapter for to write and, girl, you stood by me every step of the way! XOX**

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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER SIX

Tristan slanted Morgan a sideways glance as they walked toward her room later that night. The light from the wall torches that burned at intervals on the tavern side of the street did not penetrate the darkness on the far side, but he had no trouble making out her downcast head and hesitant steps. She might be able to sense the scout's presence in the shadows, but she was no more adept at seeing in the dark than the average person was. It not only surprised him, he also felt strangely satisfied—Tristan would never admit it was relief—to learn that she had this weakness. His own eyesight was particularly keen at night.

Because he wanted to distract her, and also because he was curious, he asked, "What did you tell him?"

"Who…oh, the golden knight?" she replied, and made the mistake of lifting her head. In the next instant she tripped over a loose cobblestone, much to Tristan's amusement. She would have taken a nasty spill, but he was quicker than her fall and snaked an arm around her slender body to stop it. Morgan gasped out loud and muttered a curse he did not understand but could well imagine. He felt the wild hammering of her heart beneath her dress, and the erratic flutter of her pulse as she briefly pressed her small hand against his.

"I'm all right," she told him with a shaky voice.

"Of course you are," he agreed, and removed his arm.

She immediately grabbed it back, and slid her hand down his sleeve until she reached his fingers and laced them with her own. There was nothing sensuous, or suggestive, about her touch. Her skin was cold and clammy, not yet recovered from the near fall. "I think I had better hang on to you until I can see where I am going."

Tristan smiled smugly in the dark. Out of simple courtesy—uncustomary for him—he had offered Morgan his arm when they first decided to stick to the shadows to avoid being seen, but she had proudly waved him off, and that irked him. Was she still smarting from his stinging comment about her body and his need? Perhaps. He acknowledged that his parting words earlier this evening were somewhat crude—cruel even—though as a whore she must have heard much, much worse.

Or maybe Morgan just wanted to prove that she could maneuver in the darkness as well as him. Now she knew better.

At least, she got over her fright quickly enough and was willing to trust his lead. He felt her body relax next to his as they resumed their walk. Her steps were no longer hesitant but confident—though she kept her head lowered. Her hand grew warm in his grasp. He enjoyed the soft, dainty feel of it. He enjoyed walking by her side. And soon he would enjoy impaling her with his manhood against the soft mattress of her bed.

"So what did you tell him?" he asked again. He knew that Gawain was not one to back off easily, but Tristan never doubted for a moment that Morgan would think of a clever excuse.

Although he could not see it, for her head remained bowed, he heard the smile in her voice when she said, "I told him I came down with a sudden stomach ailment."

"A stomach ailment?"

She did not answer right away, and he sensed her struggle over what to say, but at last she replied, "The runnies." And this time her amused voice was also tinged with embarrassment.

Tristan was nonplussed. "The _what_?" he said, then came to a standstill. _The runnies? _He took hold of Morgan's other hand and slowly turned her body toward him as understanding finally dawned on him.

"You actually told Gawain you could not bed him because of _that_?"

She bobbed her head up and down. "Yes, and then he asked if the thought of being with him had made me sick." Morgan's teeth flashed white in the dark as she smiled. "I reassured the golden knight it was not that," she continued, "then warned him against using the latrine in the tavern, and left."

Tristan stared at her shadowy face, not quite believing what he had just heard. Who would have thought it of her? Somber little Morgan, who seldom spoke or smiled, and who—like him—kept the world at bay by hiding behind a frozen mask, had a sense of humor. And a wicked one at that.

Tristan grinned. And, as he pictured the look on Gawain's face, he chuckled. His chuckle grew into a laugh, and then he just kept on laughing—the deep, husky sound a surprise to his own ears. It was a sound he had not made in many, many years. Who would have thought it? He shook his head and continued to chuckle at his own maudlin behavior.

Tristan soon became aware that she chuckled alongside him, and he paused for an instant just to hear her. There was something warm and enchanting about her laughter, something that stirred his insides and tugged at the heart he did not admit having. She leaned into him, and he very nearly pulled her close but checked himself at the last moment, choosing to squeeze her hands instead.

"You do realize, Morgan, that you will have the entire fort up in arms by morning for fear of cholera and dysentery," he said, when their mirth finally subsided. His voice was still laced with amusement.

But she did not find his words amusing at all. "Gods, you don't really think he is going to tell anyone, do you?" Morgan sounded genuinely horrified.

"I don't know. Probably not." He let go of her other hand and started down the street again. In all likelihood Gawain would say nothing of it, for if he did, Morgan would be quarantined under Arthur's orders. Disease killed a vastly greater number of people than warfare ever did, but Tristan and the other knights knew that Arthur was wont to overreact at the slightest hint of illness at Campoglanna. "No. I don't think Gawain will tell."

Morgan appeared reassured, for she let out a deep breath and did not speak again.

They walked in companionable silence and reached her alleyway a short while later. The light was better here, for a handful of wall lanterns hung outside the doors to the rooms belonging to the whores. One such door, at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, was Morgan's. Even though she no longer needed his assistance, he did not release her hand—nor did she ask for her hand back—until they began to climb.

When she arrived at the landing just ahead of him, she turned around. Because he stood two steps down, they were now face to face. Morgan's dark eyes were artless and serene, and filled with heartbreaking tenderness, as she studied him in the soft light. Tristan felt his body stiffen. He felt the skin of his face stretch tautly over his cheekbones and his eyes narrow to slits. _Keep it casual, Morgan. Remember what you are, and what this is_, he silently admonished her

She seemed to hear him. "I do not laugh often," she confessed in a quiet voice, and said nothing more.

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. "Neither do I. Not like that," he replied with a tight smile, and motioned for her to open the door.

Once inside, she briskly moved to the corner table and lit the oil lamp with the striker and flint she kept hidden under its base. Morgan was instantly bathed in a warm, golden glow. She made a pretty picture and Tristan acknowledged it with an appreciative gaze before lifting his eyes to the lintel.

The sprig of lavender was gone. He turned back toward her and raised his brow questioningly.

Morgan said, "I thought the lavender was hidden, but you noticed it the first time you were here, even though others never did."

"I am a scout. It is my job to notice things."

"I know. But still I thought it best to move it to a less conspicuous place."

"Which is?" he asked, as he scanned the room. The sprig with the red ribbon was nowhere to be seen.

"Under the bed."

Tristan shook his head and chuckled, but there was little humor in it. "And yet you healed a dog in plain sight of the street, where any passersby could see you. Which was more foolish, do you think?" One would have earned her a stern reprimand and a few lashes; the other would have ended in her crucifixion.

Morgan merely shrugged, and bent over to remove her shoes. Tristan watched her thoughtfully as she set them next to the three-legged stool then unpinned her coin pocket and placed it on the table. Just like the first time, her movements were measured and graceful—almost like a dance—with nary a step or gesture wasted. And he realized that she was more than pretty. She was beautiful to him.

She turned around and her dark eyes pierced him across the room. His loins stirred as any man's would at the promise they held. She lifted her hands to her shoulders and unfastened the row of brass buttons across the top of her outer tunic, letting the heavy garment fall around her feet, only this time she did not look away from him. This time she kept her gaze locked with his. Tristan stood silent and frozen like a Roman statue, but deep beneath his skin a fire ignited that he knew would blaze out of control before the night was out. Morgan was that good.

She started to unlace the ties of her form-fitting chemise, and it occurred to him that she assumed he wanted a repeat of their first encounter. _How wrong she was. _

He had bathed especially for her tonight.

He closed the distance between them with the speed of a snake and, without warning, wrapped his fingers around her slender wrists. Morgan gasped; her eyes widened in surprise.

"No," he said. They stood but a hair's breadth away from each other, separated only by their raised hands, and he saw a most-becoming blush fan across her upturned face.

"You don't want me to undress?" she asked, a bit uncertainly.

"Not yet," he replied. His eyes, now ablaze with the fire she had kindled, bore into hers. A slow, sensuous smile curved his lips. "I want you to undress me first."

Morgan's eyes grew even larger. He felt the quickening of her breath, as it warmed and tickled his naked throat, and the wild flutter of her pulse beneath the firm grip of his fingers. Why he should have that effect on her—she who was a whore and used to men_—_he could not even begin to guess, and did not want to, but it pleased him nonetheless.

"I want your hands and your mouth on me," he told her.

In his life, he had never spoken those words to another woman. And he idly wondered what she would think—what she would do with the knowledge—if she learned the truth. If she realized how much power she held over him right now. Tomorrow he would feel differently, of course—_had_ to feel differently, or he would make himself, for he could never allow a woman—let alone someone like Morgan—to wield such power. But tonight he would allow her anything.

He had been looking forward to this all day, and he had wanted it two weeks ago when he first entered her room.

"I would like to touch you," she admitted, her voice little more than a whisper. She looked at him with honest, limpid eyes, and Tristan knew she meant it. He drew in a sharp breath, and his hands unwittingly tightened on her fragile wrists. Morgan whimpered in protest, and he released her right away. He had no desire to bruise such delicate skin. But her words, and her nearness, were shaking him, disturbing his sense of balance…

"Have you ensorcelled me?" he asked abruptly. The question came unbidden, and he regretted asking it the moment the words left his lips, for he knew it was not so. True, he was at a loss to explain his intense desire for the girl—and her intense response to him—and that unsettled him for he did not like puzzles. But, whatever was happening between them had nothing to do with sorcery.

The wounded expression that shadowed her face confirmed it. "No! No, of course not. There is no need…"

"I believe you, little one," he interrupted in a soft, apologetic voice—so unlike him. So unlike him to feel anything akin to shame But he was in a strange mood. She had brought him to a strange place. And because Tristan would no longer deny himself, he told her straightaway, "Touch me now, Morgan. Do whatever you will."

He had just surrendered his body to her—even though he had always spurned the touch of others—and the reasoning part of him could hardly believe it.

Apparently, neither could Morgan. She looked stunned. "Whatever I will," she echoed, then she bit her lip thoughtfully and took a step back.

Tristan watched her with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, and not a little exasperation, as she cupped her chin with one hand and slowly—very slowly, and covetously—swept her gaze up and down his black-clad frame, before settling on his face. Her eyes were bright with mischief when she asked herself, "Where _do_ I begin?" and laughed—albeit a bit nervously—for the second time that evening.

Like her sense of humor, this playful side of her caught him completely unawares. He always found such wiles repulsive coming from other whores. _Always. _And he never put up with them. But, surprisingly, he found nothing repulsive about Morgan and her little act—perhaps because he did not think she engaged in such playfulness very often; perhaps because deep down inside he knew she never did. This was for his pleasure alone. So Tristan decided to indulge her. "I know where I'd begin," he said with a suggestive smile. She could not see the hard bulge in his pants beneath the loose-fitting shirt, but it was there.

Morgan shook her head and laughed yet again. "Oh no, my lord knight! Time enough for that later. I think…" she said, and pressed a finger to her lips as she stared into his amused eyes, "I think I shall begin at the top."

She clasped his hand and led him to the bed. "Sit," she ordered and Tristan complied. She stood before him, face to face on the same level, and he spread his legs so that she could draw closer, but did not touch her. Instead, he rested his hands on his knees. Her gaze was as soft as a caress, her smile even more so, and he waited patiently for her to do whatever she willed. He waited patiently, and remained utterly still, even though every muscle in his body tensed and screamed for him to crush her in his arms. She seemed unaware of the captivating picture she made when she looked and smiled at him like that. Like a lover, not a whore.

And Tristan knew Morgan would enjoy this as much as him.

With both hands, she brushed back the ever-errant lock of hair that fell over his face, and went on to run her fingers through the long brown strands that reached down to his shoulders. "It's so silky," she murmured dreamily, leaning forward to rub a handful against her cheek. Usually, Tristan's hair was anything but. It was wont to be greasy and matted, and woven into numerous warrior braids, but during his bath earlier this evening he had unbraided it and scrubbed it free of tangles and debris and vermin. He was almost certain he had no lice, and was glad of that fact when she cradled his head and began to gently massage his scalp.

She was so close to him now that Tristan smelled the clean scent of her skin. Lavender—just as he suspected. And he briefly closed his eyes so that he could enjoy the sensuous feel of her dainty hands. Without realizing it, he exhaled a long sigh of contentment, and opened his eyes again to find her staring at him with an expression of faint amusement and something…_else_, something darker and deeper. Something he could not define, but that left him feeling oddly breathless.

"When you said 'the top' I did not realize you literally meant it," he told her in a gruff voice, as he tried to regain some sense of equilibrium. But he knew he was lost and suspected she did too. And so, as if to remind himself, he mumbled, "Whatever you will…"

Morgan merely smiled and pushed his head downward to trail delicate kisses across his crown—kisses such as a woman might give a child. Was she_ mothering _him now? Tristan could not remember ever being kissed that way by anyone, let alone his mother. But before he could ponder Morgan's intent, or acknowledge the strange, sudden ache in his throat, she stopped and lifted his head.

Her hands were still buried in his hair, and now she brushed his shaggy brown locks back to reveal his ears. Morgan's mouth found one tender lobe. She suckled on the soft flesh and made soft moaning sounds as she nipped it playfully, before her tongue plunged into the shell, sliding on every curve and fold, _tasting_ him, making his spine shiver in ticklish delight. Once she was finished with the first ear, she made love to the other. And Tristan dropped his hands to the bed and clenched the coverlet with his fists.

When she was done, she pulled back slightly, and slid her hands forward to frame his face. Morgan studied each and every chiseled feature, unhurriedly, almost reverently, and whispered, "You are beautiful." And he did not doubt her. Beneath his rough, unkempt appearance, Tristan possessed the fine, aristocratic bones of his tribe, the Royal Scythians—sons and daughters of ancient kings who now roamed the vast steppes of eastern Sarmatia. Yes, he was beautiful, though no one had ever called him such before.

Her fingertips traced the high, elegant line of his cheekbones and the tribal tattoos painted on them—tattoos that were a testament to the royal blood that coursed through his veins. Then her hands glided across his face to briefly meet on the bridge of his narrow nose, only to slide upwards and separate as they smoothed his brow.

"So beautiful," she repeated. Her voice and her hands were as reverent as her eyes—poignant even—and his brow started to crease in a puzzled frown. But pleasure at her touch softened his features again, and he found himself sighing contentedly once more. And when Morgan's mouth at last took the place of her hands and kissed his cheek, he felt his entire being melt away, save for that one stiff part of him that longed to sheath itself inside her slender body.

She circled his bearded face with her lips, and stopped to look at him with unbearable tenderness, before gently kissing his eyes shut. The ache in Tristan's throat spread to his chest.

Then Morgan's petal-soft lips slid to his mouth.

She actually meant to kiss him there—and his eyes flew open in shock. It was an unspoken rule between whores and their customers, never, ever, to engage in mouth kissing. Mouth kissing was reserved for lovers. But Tristan was not about to remind her of that. Let her pretend to be his lover for the night, if it pleased her. It pleased him for certain.

Her hands on his face trembled with feeling. She kissed him slowly, profoundly, erotically covering his entire mouth with hers, as if she wanted to consume it. The sensuality of her kiss echoed down his body, and he _was_ consumed. Consumed by flames, and filled with an almost desperate longing that he was not wont to name.

Morgan brought his untried senses to life. She brought _him_ to life.

He grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her flush against his body, as he kissed her back with hard, heated lips. At first his mouth devoured hers, ruthlessly bruising and pulling on the tender flesh. And she responded with like passion, moaning loudly, while her fingers tangled themselves in his hair and clung to it as one would a lifeline. But when his teeth bit her lip so brutally as to draw blood and she stiffened in his arms, Tristan gentled his kiss. He wooed her with his mouth till she opened hers in invitation. His tongue darted in an out, teasing her own tongue, coaxing it to dance. He tasted mint herb and dinner wine, and drank deeply of her fragrant breath. Then he sucked on her lower lip—the one he had caused to bleed—as if it was a nipple. On and on he suckled, long after there was no blood, until the soft pink flesh was swollen, and she stood hot and quivering against him.

Morgan took a deep breath, braced her hands against his chest and leaned back. "Whatever I will," she reminded them both in a shaky voice that was little more than a whisper. Her face was flushed pink, her breathing shallow. And she had begun to sweat; her hands were damp and he could smell her sharp, musky scent intermingled with the lavender. Tristan knew that she was no less aroused than he was. He could take her now anyway he wanted and she would welcome him. But he had given his word, and was man enough to wait.

"Go on," he told her, loosening his hold on her body but not letting go.

Drawing another deep breath, Morgan smiled and shifted her attention downward. Her trembling hands swiftly swept the strong column of his throat before settling beneath the collar of his black linen shirt. Then she bent over to follow with her mouth. Her lips were no longer gentle and slow, but urgent and parted, to permit her tongue to taste the saltiness of his skin as her mouth slid sideways and down the corded muscles of his neck. She not only wanted to taste him she seemed to want to _savor_ him. The lower she got, the tighter her hands became, until she was painfully squeezing his pulse point, but Tristan did not complain. When she finally reached the base of his throat, she laved and nipped the pulsating skin beneath her fingers, then trailed her tongue to the hollow between his collarbones. She pressed frenzied kisses there, even as she dropped to her knees to bury her face where his collar opened to reveal a wedge of muscular chest covered with crisp brown hair. Morgan breathed his body in.

His hands now rested higher on her back, and they absently drew patterns on the thin fabric of her chemise, as she quickly unfastened each toggle on his shirt. Unfastened each toggle and kissed the skin and hair it exposed from his chest to his abdomen, until at last his shirt lay open before her. The tip of her small, pink tongue dove into the depths of his navel, and Tristan could not stifle a groan as explosive currents raced through his body. His fingers bit cruelly into her shoulders to stop himself from pushing her face against his groin.

For the space of a heartbeat, he was tempted to do it. To force her to take his manhood into her mouth, and give his body the release it craved, once and for all. But he had promised to let her have her way. And, in truth, he wanted to bury himself inside of her and bring them to climax together once again. He could, and would, wait a little longer—unless she had a different idea.

Morgan straightened the instant she heard his groan. She trailed her fingers down the narrow strip of dark hair that disappeared into his bulging pants, and briefly cupped him, before standing up on shaky legs. Tristan's hands dropped to the bed and strangled the coverlet yet again.

Her dark eyes smoldered with passion, as she softly panted, "Soon, my lord knight."

"Soon," he agreed. And it had better be. He was quite painfully engorged.

"But I have not finished touching you yet."

Tristan's mouth tightened into a straight line. He muttered a curse between gritted teeth, and Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. The pink color on her cheeks deepened. She took hold of his shirt with fingers that were far from steady. Given her obvious state of arousal—not to mention his—he half-expected her to tear the garment off him. But instead, she gently eased him out of it, first one arm and then the other, before folding it neatly and setting it on the floor next to the bed. He thought it absurd—and yet, oddly touching—that she should treat his clothing so carefully at a time like this.

Then she turned to face him once again and went perfectly still. With the patience of a Christian saint, Morgan studied his half-clad body. Tristan was not a vain man, but he knew he had a handsome form—lean, hard, and rippling with muscles—easily seen beneath his abundant chest hair—and with nary an ounce of spare flesh. His arms were strong and elegant, and likewise ridged with sinew from years of heavy sword and bow work. He expected, and saw, a gleam of appreciation light up her eyes, and a myriad of other heated emotions, but he did not expect to see compassion. And, yet, it was there. Morgan's expression grew oddly solemn as she lay a hand on each of his wrists and traced a snail's path up his arms, exploring every muscle, every contour, up to his shoulders. No, not merely a saint—she had the forbearance of a martyr.

Before he could think to question her strange shift in mood, she slid her hands down each collarbone, then softly pushed him back on the mattress. She sat on the bed next to him and leaned over to trail her hot tongue down the same path. He coiled her braid around his wrist to keep her body close, and wrapped his free arm around her back. Her small, hot hands moved lower, ruffling the mat of crisp hair that covered his chest, until they found the hard nubs of his nipples. She rubbed them, and pinched them with her fingertips and nails.

Tristan groaned loudly, as his body responded to her sensual assault. He tried to lie still, but his hips started to rock out of their own volition. And he twisted his lower torso until his loins pressed against her waist.

Morgan moved closer to accommodate him, but did not pause in her lovemaking. She took one flat, hard nipple into her mouth, nibbled and sucked, and drew circles around it with her tongue, all the while mewling like a kitten. The sound amused him—most likely she was unaware of even making it. And a brief smile touched his lips. Whatever odd mood had possessed her clearly was gone.

She laved his second nipple in the same voracious manner, then her head slid further down, past his ribs to his taut stomach. Tristan shuddered and groaned again. His thoughts fragmented as her hands and lips and tongue continued their hungry search of his body. Hot, agonizing waves swept into his belly.

Because he could no longer contain himself, he dragged her body on top of his, and dug his hands into her buttocks, pressing them ruthlessly down as his erection ground into her softness. Morgan's breath whooshed out of her. His runaway heart hammered against his ribs and her own wildly beating heart.

He needed to loosen his pants. He needed to tear that chemise off her.

"Morgan…" he warned.

"My will is done," she replied quickly, as if sensing his urgency, and sat up to straddle him. With trembling hands, she hurriedly untied the laces of his pants, and took hold of his engorged manhood. It pulsated with a life of its own in her small hands and Morgan gently—and purposefully—began to pump it, while he tried to wriggle free of his pants. Tried, and miserably failed. The garment bunched up just below his knees and would not budge.

Morgan did not seem to realize it. Her attention was riveted on his manhood, and she lowered her head to slide her tongue down the hot smoothness of its length.

"Morgan…" Tristan repeated in a strained voice, as he propped himself up on one elbow.

She must have thought he was chiding her, for she straightened at once and he could see the sudden wariness in her face as their gazes collided. "What is your pleasure, my lord? What would you have me do?"

"I would have you get my bloody boots off."

For a moment, Morgan gaped at him in surprise. That was obviously the last thing she expected him to say. She whipped her head around to see his legs hanging helpless and imprisoned over the side of the bed. "Oh." And turned back to look at him. "Oh!" Then an amused smile ruffled her mouth.

"I'll see to it," she assured him and scampered off the bed to kneel before his feet. While she struggled with his boots and recalcitrant pants, Tristan dropped back on the mattress and threw an arm across his forehead. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. His manhood stood at attention, as erect and proud as any general on a field of conquest, but he himself felt hopelessly conquered. He had asked her for this. He had wanted it from the moment he stepped inside her room two weeks ago: her hands, her mouth, and her tongue on him. But now it was time for him to conquer, to take command of _her_.

She was so disturbing to him in every way. For the remainder of the night, he would do all the disturbing.

With one final tug and a most unladylike grunt, Morgan got his tangled pants off. She stood and started to fold them, but he told her tersely, "Leave them."

She looked at him with rounded eyes and let them fall right next to his boots. Then she kneeled on the bed and started to straddle him once more, but Tristan never gave her the chance.

In one swift movement, he grabbed hold of Morgan's upper arms and swung her onto her back. She gasped and breathed in sharply when he followed her down. It was the last deep breath he would allow her for a long while, as he mercilessly pinned her to the mattress. She was so much smaller than he was that his body covered her from head to toe, trapping her arms and legs, making it impossible for her to breathe. She whimpered in protest, and he pushed her up toward the headboard until he could feel her labored breath on his face, but he kept his full weight on her, crushing her, relishing the feel of her soft curves against his hardness.

Her wrists were so slender that he wrapped one hand around both and lifted them above her head, while he braced his elbow on the bed. She was his prisoner now—his to plunder in whatever way he willed. He stared into her startled eyes with a feral expression on his face, and almost growled with satisfaction. He ground his hips into her thighs, surely bruising the tender skin, but Tristan no longer cared, as he grabbed the hem of her chemise with his free hand and dragged it up to her waist. He had meant to remove it, but his patience was at an end.

Her lower body lay naked now, and he slightly eased his weight from her, releasing her legs. Morgan immediately spread them—so obliging, Tristan thought. She was so damned obliging. And he bent back to look at her exposed privates—pink and swollen and wet beneath her mound of black curls—and more than ready to receive his shaft. She wantonly arched her hips toward him, and he briefly buried his fingers into her quivering flesh, before pressing her to the bed once again. She hooked her ankles together behind his waist and, for an exquisitely torturous moment, he felt the parted folds of her womanhood against his bare belly.

In all his life, Tristan had never experienced such soul-shattering need. He half-kneeled on the bed and slid his body upwards until the tip of his manhood nudged her slick folds, and in one quick movement, sheathed himself deep inside of her—so deep that their loins seemed to be fused together. But he did not thrust into her right away, even though his body screamed for release. Rather, he stared into her upturned face, and held her still with his burning gaze, just as his hand held her wrists. Her face was flushed and damp. Her captive eyes brimmed with need and deep, deep longing. Surely she did not react this way with her other customers. How could she? If she did, she would never know a moment's peace. If she did, Gawain would be spending his coin on her every night, and Tristan knew that he had not.

This was for him alone.

He wanted to kiss her once again, but because of her small size, he was unable to reach her lips. So he kissed her on the forehead instead. It was quick, no more than a peck, but he had never kissed a woman thus in his life—for it was a kiss born of tenderness and not lust. And he recognized the feeling and accepted it though he did not welcome it.

Beneath him, Morgan's skin became impossibly hot, and scorched him. By now, they were both bathed in a thin sheen of perspiration, and he inhaled the musky scent of her half-naked body that still bore a trace of lavender. He could feel her taut nipples through the thin fabric of her chemise as they pressed against his chest, and he shifted his free hand sideways, to move possessively over one small breast, cupping and kneading it, and squeezing the hardened peak.

Morgan moaned, and Tristan at last led them to their rhythmic dance. He withdrew his shaft from her womanhood slowly and thrust deeply, over and over again with increasing urgency, while her small body bucked and thrashed against his. His eyes never left her face; she told him everything she felt without ever speaking. If he were not careful, those eyes of hers would be his undoing.

Midway through their coupling, he let go of her wrists. She wound her arms around his waist and wildly arched her hips meeting him thrust for thrust, trying to bring him further inside. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he used every bit of willpower he possessed to hold back his release until her climax was at hand. He knew she was almost there when her fingernails raked his back. And together they soared to a shuddering ecstasy. Together they cried out and exploded in a savage downpour of fiery sensations and mindless pleasure. This time, he did not withdraw—as he was wont to do whenever he bedded whores—and instead allowed his hot seed to spill deep inside of her, while their bodies continued to convulse. He held her tightly—their hearts thumping madly against one another—until their tremors subsided. And only then did Tristan slip out of her body.

He remained on top of her, however. He searched her face and whispered her name, "Morgan," as he swept away the tears that freely fell from her beautiful eyes. For the second time now, she cried after their coupling. He briefly wondered if she would always cry with him, before his mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss. It was the kiss he would have given her during their coupling, had he been able to, and it made Morgan cry all the harder.

Tristan shook his head in bemusement, and slowly took his weight off of her. He noticed the wrinkled chemise still bunched up around her midriff and started to pull it down, but decided against it. He wanted Morgan to lie naked beside him. So he kneeled on the bed, and with the utmost care, lifted her languid body to a sitting position. He loosened the laces further and pulled the thin garment over her head. And after tossing it on the stool where her tunic lay, he eased her back on the soft mattress with him, and rolled her onto her side so that they faced each other.

He had meant to disturb her—and he _had_ disturbed her—just as she had disturbed him. And he wondered, not for the first time, what she was all about as he silently watched her try to rein in her rampant emotions. _Why him? _

Why in the gods' names had she chosen _him_?

She shivered and he belatedly reached for the coverlet, but before he could spread it over their bodies, she raised her hand and caressed his cheek. "Tristan," she said simply, and he went still. It was the first time she had ever called him by name, and she pronounced it in the Celtic fashion, with a trill in the "r" that he found most beguiling. Tristan did not recall ever telling her his name.

By now Morgan's tears had quieted, though her eyes and face still glistened with wetness. She lowered her hand to a jagged scar that ran from his shoulder midway down his arm, and softly traced the puckered skin with her fingertip.

"I can take it away." she told him quietly, and Tristan finally understood that odd expression on her face when she removed his shirt earlier.

Like any other warrior, his body and limbs were adorned with reminders of battles fought and won over his long years of service—battles he fought because he had to, and also because he wanted to. As testament to his prowess on the battlefield, he wore fewer scars than the average soldier did—fewer in fact than the other knights wore. Surely, Morgan must have seen much, much worse.

"I can take all of your scars away," she insisted, and the import of her words sunk in.

Morgan was actually offering to use her healing magic to remove his battle marks. It stunned him that she would do this for him. And Tristan realized why her skin was so flawless, so baby smooth. But he did not want her to use magic to heal him. Every scar, weal, and blemish he wore was a lesson learned, a mistake not to be repeated.

"No," he replied, and kissed the tip of her nose to soften his rejection. She nodded her head in understanding. Tristan quickly covered their naked bodies and drew her closer until their arms and legs became entwined and the top of her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.

Until he could no longer see her disconcerting eyes.

Tristan refused to acknowledge what those eyes revealed—now when she was at her most vulnerable—because he did not want to let her go. Not now. Not yet. He was not ready to let her go.

And so, he set aside his questions and his doubts, just like he set aside her eyes.

With Morgan at his side, he knew a feeling of rightness. He felt a bottomless peace and satisfaction such as he had never experienced with a woman before—or with any person, for that matter.

For what remained of their time together tonight, there would be no more shadows in his mind, no further need to concern himself with complications. There was time enough for such thoughts tomorrow. Time enough to break whatever bond existed between them—if need be.

"Tristan," she mumbled in a tired voice, and softly kissed his throat, "you are so beautiful to me. I…"

"Sssssh, little one," he interrupted, and shut his heart and mind against the plaintive appeal in her words. Then he rubbed his chin over her head, and whispered, "Sleep now, Morgan. Go to sleep."

"Will you stay with me the night?" she asked, trying to lean back to look at him.

But Tristan would not let her. He lifted his hand to cradle her head, and gently pushed her face against his neck again.

"Mmmmmm," was all he said, and she might have taken it for consent, for she did not speak anymore.

She buried her hand into his hair, and pressed her sated womanhood against his loins. As she drifted off to sleep, her soft curves molded to the contours of his lean frame until scarcely a hair's breadth separated them.

Tristan sighed and took comfort in the steady beat of her heart against his own heart, in the exquisite feel of her warm body in his arms. And he did not move again for a long, long while.

At last, when he was convinced that she would not awaken, he slowly—and with the utmost care—eased out of her embrace. She sensed it anyhow, for she mumbled and stirred in her sleep. And he caressed her face and whispered nonsense words until she quieted, and rolled away.

He tucked the coverlet snugly around her shoulders, for the nights were growing colder, and her room was colder than most. After quickly donning his clothes, he lit the brazier next to the bed and tossed her discarded chemise on top of her folded dress. Then, he left the rest of his payment on the table and added an extra coin. She really was rather extraordinary.

With one last glance at her sleeping form, Tristan blew out her lamp and started for the door. He did not feel guilty about leaving. Morgan chose to believe what she wanted—he never promised to stay. But at least he would leave her sleeping in peace.

And that was more than he had ever done for any whore…


	8. Chapter 8

**WARNING: This chapter is rated M for language and violence. Readers, I'm sorry about the language later on in the chapter (there are 3 cuss words), but I think someone like Tristan is bound to cuss at some point or another!**

**DEAR READERS: I have just found out that writers are no longer allowed to respond to individual reviewers within our stories, so I have had to go back and erase my comments to you from previous chapters. I truly regret this, for I have enjoyed responding to your reviews within the framework of my story. However, this website has provided another way for writers to reply to signed reviews via e-mail. My review replies will go directly to this website and they in turn will forward it to you while keeping your e-mail address private. I will not be able to respond to every signed review individually, but occasionally I will send a review reply to let you know just HOW MUCH I appreciate your comments. Believe me when I tell you, your reviews are a big motivation factor for me. Sometimes it's the only motivation! So please keep reading and reviewing!**

**Thank you to all of my reviewers and my beta Kris. I wish everyone a safe and fun holiday. May you all be blessed with much love, happiness, and good fortune this coming year! **

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**TRISTAN'S CHOICE**

**CHAPTER SEVEN** (_Five days later, a half-day's ride east of Camboglanna)_

Gawain would die.

Tristan did not need to hear the army surgeon's somber pronouncement to know the truth. Neither did the other knights as they quietly gathered around the hospital wagon to wait.

They knew what the outcome would be before Gawain was taken inside. They knew it from the moment they heard Gawain's pain-filled, angry roar and turned to see the golden knight catch and cradle his intestines as they spilled from the gaping wound in his abdomen. The Woad had sneaked up from behind, reached beneath his armor, and gutted him as cleanly as if he were a fish or small animal of prey.

It was so unexpected it almost defied belief, for they had won the battle this morning—a surprisingly easy victory against the Woad marauders, with only two Roman soldiers killed and a mere handful injured, and none of those seriously. Instead, the ground was littered and bloodied with dozens of dead Woads, and pieces of Woads—an arm here, a leg there, and severed heads and headless corpses everywhere. Out in the open, the primitive weaponry of the blue savages was no match for the armored might of the Roman army. And Arthur had lured them out into the open. They were foolish to engage, and had died for their foolishness.

But one had not been dead enough. Tristan did not know how the Woad escaped their notice. As was their habit, the knights and the Roman soldiers scoured the field after the battle and ended the suffering of the dying and the not-so-nearly dying. There was little honor in killing a wounded enemy who would otherwise live, but it was practical. Especially when said enemy was a Woad.

The cunning bastard had pretended to be dead. And the Roman soldier who later swore the man _was_ dead when he examined him must have grown too confident and complacent after the victory to have realized the truth. There was no other explanation.

Gawain would die for a careless soldier's mistake, and only Tristan's iron discipline kept him from running the misbegotten Roman through with his sword. He looked at the sad, angry faces of his fellow knights as they kept vigil outside the wagon, and knew they felt the same. They would all like to run the Roman through, and mayhap they would get their chance, but now was not the time. Galahad was openly crying, his hand tightly clenched around the hilt of his sword, as his eyes followed the Roman's retreating figure.

"Don't even think about it. Not now," muttered Lancelot, echoing Tristan's thoughts.

"He deserves to be gutted the same as Gawain," hissed the young knight, and he actually took a step forward, but Bors grabbed his arm and stayed him.

"You'll only get yourself killed, boy, and that won't do Gawain any good." The murder of a Roman citizen by a non-citizen—no matter how justified—was punishable by death. The Sarmatian knights were not citizens of Rome.

Galahad dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hand. He wept in despair, and did not care who saw or heard. Bors sighed and patted the young man's shoulder, as if comforting one of his many children. Of Arthur's six remaining knights, no two were closer than Galahad and Gawain. They were more than friends and comrades at arms—they were brothers of the heart. From the moment Arthur brought them together under his command, Gawain had declared it to be so, for young Galahad bore an uncanny resemblance—both in appearance and temperament—to the golden knight's dead sibling.

Tristan lowered his gaze to the ground. He did not want to see Galahad weep.

Gawain was as fierce a fighter as there ever was, brave and brash, and seemingly indestructible when the battle fever was upon him. Tristan once saw him bring down three enemy warriors with his axe whilst an arrow protruded from his shoulder and another from his back. One of the warriors he felled was about to cleave Tristan in two. Gawain was as strong as a tree or a young ox, unfailingly loyal and steadfast, a good man to fight alongside with in battle. But even he could not cheat death. In the end, no man could, Tristan reflected, no matter how strong or fierce or brave.

Outwardly, the scout remained dry-eyed and detached, almost grim, but deep inside his fallow heart a kernel of grief sprouted. Only the gods and Tristan's innermost self saw it, and he ruthlessly crushed it before Tristan the warrior could become aware. Grief had no place in a warrior's life, anymore than love did. And so, he refused to grieve. But he would deeply regret Gawain's passing, and he would miss him. That much he could—and did—allow.

Beside him, Dagonet took a shuddering breath, and the scout suspected the big knight was fighting his own tears. On his other side, Lancelot kicked the ground in frustration and started to pace. This same scene had played out over and over again throughout the years; only the players changed, their numbers ever whittling down.

Gawain would die, and then they would be five. Out of one hundred knights hand-picked by Arthur to sit at the Round Table and fight for a cause not their own, only five would remain. Inside the hospital wagon, Tristan knew that Arthur was devastated.

And he was right. When Arthur emerged a short while later, he looked like a defeated man. His face was drawn and haggard—ravaged by the burden of yet another death. And his eyes were bloodshot. Arthur felt too much, cared too much about his men—more than was prudent for a commander, Tristan believed—and it had taken a heavy toll.

Galahad stood up and glared at Arthur through his tears, daring him to say the words, while the other knights held their collective breaths and waited for their commander to climb down from the wagon. At last, Lancelot asked, "Is he gone?"

Arthur solemnly eyed each of his men, his gaze lingering longest on the young knight, then he shook his head. "It will take hours, but he cannot survive such a wound."

Hours? _Hours? _How could that be? Tristan's heart began to thump, and Morgan's lovely face came unbidden to his mind for the hundredth time that week.

Distraught and angry, Galahad seemed as if he was about to attack Arthur, and his comrades tensed, but he grabbed the older man's arms instead and choked, "Is he awake?"

"No, Galahad…"

Arthur said more, but Tristan did not hear it. _Hours. _Gawain had hours to live. Disemboweled prisoners often lived hours, but their punishment was carefully and precisely meted out to ensure it. Who had ever heard of a disemboweled soldier surviving that long? But if the army surgeon said so…

Camboglanna was less than a day's ride away. In fact, with a fast horse, one could make it in a matter of _hours._

Morgan was in Camboglanna. Morgan had healed a dying dog…

"Arthur!" Tristan interrupted his commander. The others startled at the unfamiliar urgency in the scout's voice, and turned to stare at him. "We need to get Gawain back to the fort now. We need to get him there fast."

"Are you mad?" Lancelot asked.

Tristan ignored the dark knight. He approached Arthur and looked him in the eye. "I think he can be saved."

Lancelot snorted in derision, but the other knights closed in.

"How?" Bors and Dagonet asked as one.

Galahad clutched at his arm. "Do you jest?" The angry disbelief in his voice was tempered by newfound hope.

Tristan's attention remained fixed on his commander. Arthur studied him for a long moment, then quietly said, "Gawain is in God's hands now. Nothing short of a miracle can save him." He paused and pursed his lips. "Can you offer me a miracle, Tristan?"

Gawain had hours yet to live. Morgan had saved a dying dog in minutes. A _dying _dog. The scout's heart thumped faster. For the sake of Gawain, he was about to place her in great peril.

"I think I can," he replied. Galahad gasped and dropped his hand. Tristan was buffeted by the intense emotions roiling through and from the knights around him—shock, disbelief, hope, anger—but he forced himself to stay calm and cool in the face of Arthur's scrutiny.

"Explain," his commander demanded.

"I know a young woman. A healer. She is very gifted. I believe she can save him." Would Morgan see it as betrayal? Undoubtedly—for that was precisely what it was.

"I have never heard of such a healer at the fort," Arthur said, with a shake of his head. "Our surgeon is the best one in the frontier and he says Gawain will not live. How can this young woman save him?"

"Do you trust me, Arthur?" Tristan asked instead of replying, even as he felt a stab of remorse for breaking faith with Morgan.

"You know I do."

"Then trust me when I tell you that I believe she can save him. I have seen her save a dying…" Tristan hesitated, unwilling to say 'dog' and have Arthur dismiss his claim. "I have seen her save someone who was dying, someone who _should _have and _would_ have died from his injuries without her."

Tristan did not tell Arthur that she was a sorceress—that she healed with magic. His Christian commander would see that for himself soon enough. There was no need to betray the girl in front of the encampment—before the Roman soldiers who listened unabashedly a few paces away and the Roman surgeon inside the hospital wagon. The gods willing, Arthur would agree to protect her, as Tristan knew the other knights would once they learned the truth.

Galahad spoke up. "Arthur, if there is any chance this woman of Tristan's can heal Gawain, then I think we should take it."

Lancelot snorted again, and asked, "Who is this mystery woman? Why have we never heard of her before?"

Tristan spared the dark knight a cold glance—he and Lancelot would surely come to blows one day—then shifted his gaze back to Arthur. "I will ride ahead to fetch the healer and meet you at the estate. Dagonet can take Gawain. His horse will readily carry the weight of two men. The others can relieve him if need be." The wagon would have been preferable, of course, but it would never reach the fort in time.

Lancelot was appalled. "This is madness! Arthur, he will never survive it." His face spoke of utter disbelief and dismay.

But the other knights were swayed by Tristan's calm assertions. "He certainly won't survive if we do nothing!" countered Galahad.

"At least this way he will have a chance," added Dagonet, who seldom spoke up about anything. In truth, he was even quieter than Tristan. The scout knew that whenever the big knight did speak, Arthur was apt to listen. This argument was won.

Bors realized it too. "Bah! What are we waiting for?" Ever impatient, he trudged off to where the squire Jols had gathered their horses, and thus reminded his comrades that time was wasting.

"Go, Tristan. Make haste," Arthur said, his decision made.

Tristan heard the surgeon's loud protests as he rode away shortly thereafter, but he never doubted for a moment that the knights would soon follow with Gawain—Arthur's word was command on the field. Nor did he doubt Morgan's ability to save the golden knight, _if_ he survived the journey back.

It did not occur to Tristan that she might refuse outright to heal Gawain, until he was alone with his thoughts on the road to Camboglanna—alone, except for his horse, which sensed the scout's urgency and raced like a dragonfly, and the ever-faithful hawk that accompanied them overhead.

_Would Morgan refuse?_ Tristan scowled into the wind. There was no telling how she would react to his betrayal. He had witnessed her fit of temper in the alleyway. When riled, she lashed out like a caged lion. But she was vulnerable too—especially when she was with him and let her guard down. He had wounded her before with his callousness. Would she be angry this time, or would she feel hurt? Or would she simply be afraid? Tristan acknowledged that she had a right to all three emotions.

Whatever she felt, however she reacted, he could not allow her to refuse him.

And she might not. Morgan was infatuated with him—the gods and she only knew why—and he stood a good chance of winning her compliance merely by asking. After all, she had bedded Gawain more than once. Tristan knew this because he had asked the golden knight. She had bedded Galahad too, and the closeness between the two friends would not have escaped her notice. The girl was, if anything, observant. Both Gawain and Galahad were popular among the whores, and Morgan—in all likelihood—favored them over most of her other clients. Yes, she might readily agree to heal the golden knight.

But if she required coaxing—or even an apology—Tristan would do it, though it was out of character for him to show such weakness to any person. If he had to bend her to his will, so be it. He was well versed in the art of coercion and felt no qualms about resorting to it—though, in truth, he did not relish doing so with Morgan. She had taken him places he'd never been. She touched him in ways that no other woman ever could. And since their last coupling, she verily haunted his thoughts, preying on his mind at the oddest moments.

Tristan had acquired a taste for her.

And yet, despite any reluctance he might harbor, the scout knew that if he had to threaten her with bodily harm, he would, to get what he wanted. A choice between the girl's feeling of security or Gawain's life was no choice at all. Though he was far from indifferent to her, he barely knew Morgan—save in the carnal sense—but he had fought and bled and broken bread alongside the golden knight for many, many years. If he were forced to choose between the two, Gawain would win hands down.

Willingly or not, Morgan would heal Gawain.

But once Gawain was saved, Tristan would do his best to protect her, even if it meant defying Arthur. That much he vowed.

And no sooner did he vow it than he gave a short, ironic laugh. To think, just a few days ago he intended to kill her if she became too much of a complication. Well, she was certainly _that_ now, and Tristan was caught in her web fast and true. Yet he could no longer imagine ever wanting to take her life.

The grassy fields and dark forests that abutted them passed in a blur as one hour lapsed into the next and the day waned. Tristan scarcely noticed, for although he instinctively kept his senses attuned to any sign of danger, during the remainder of the journey random images preoccupied his mind. Images of Morgan in and out of her red dress, as she spoke, and smiled, and made love to him. Images of Gawain gutted by the Woad and Galahad weeping and Arthur's distraught face. And other, traitorous images he quickly quashed—of Morgan's delicate hands on Gawain, and Gawain paying court to the young woman who saved his life.

At long last, Tristan's horse crested a high hill and Hadrian's Wall and the fort came into view, the ash-gray stones painted a warm gold by the late afternoon sun. Tristan was almost home, and he was shocked to realize that that was exactly what he had called it inside his head. _Home._ Since when had Camboglanna become home? Of all the knights, only Bors considered it so—and that, Tristan suspected, was because of Vanora and her brood.

Might Morgan have something to do with his strange new feeling? Possibly, the scout admitted. _Probably. _He recalled the last time he saw her, just before the knights rode out five days ago, and his expression grew thoughtful. He did not get to speak to her again, for a scant few hours after he left her room, word of a Woad raid reached Camboglanna. But he spotted her in the crowd of well-wishers that lined the main street of the fort to see the knights and Roman soldiers depart. Morgan wore her usual solemn face and hung back from the other people, electing to stand alone on a small raised stoop. He slowed his horse as he passed her by and drew a loud, angry curse from Lancelot who rode too close behind. Tristan saw her cringe at the dark knight's outburst, then she raised a hand in farewell. The scout nodded back, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. For the first time ever, he understood a little of what Bors must feel each time he left the fort. And, as he sped through the large wooden gates on his way to battle, Tristan realized—for the first time too—that he had something, or rather someone, to come back to. Whether he welcomed it or not.

Now as he rode back through the gates five days later, he was hardly surprised to feel his body tense in anticipation of seeing her again, despite the gravity of his mission.

Just like the last time he returned, the streets of Camboglanna were almost deserted, for it was nearing dusk. Tristan reached the stable a short time later and relinquished his reins to a surprised groom. The scout settled his hawk on her perch. Then, with a mumbled apology to his horse and a quick stroke of the long, dappled neck, he walked out of the stable courtyard and onto the street. He could not remember the last time he left his animals in the stable without first attending to their needs. But he had to get Morgan to the estate before the others arrived.

Tristan did not run to her room; rather, he maintained a brisk walking pace, and ignored the curious stares of a wine seller and two Roman guards who passed him by. Within minutes, he was climbing the narrow wooden steps at the end of the alleyway, two at a time. As he knocked on her door, a preternatural calm settled on his face. His expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil inside his head.

Morgan opened the door. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw him, and her lips parted in a delighted smile that he could not help but return. She quickly stepped to one side to let him in, then leaned her back against the wooden panel and closed it behind her as he turned around.

"Tristan…" The warmth of her smile echoed in her voice, and in his gut.

The girl took his breath away. She had not finished dressing for the evening and only wore her red chemise. Her hair was unbraided, and tumbled carelessly down her back in a riot of curls as black as a starless night. It was the first time he saw it unbound, and for the space of several heartbeats, he forgot why he was there as his eyes drank her in. He loved her hair. His gaze shifted to her slim, boyish figure, and he could see the nubs of her nipples through the thin fabric of the chemise. He could see them grow hard under his stare.

Her beauty was exquisite, sensual. Her presence brought him an unfamiliar joy. And he wanted nothing more than to crush her in his arms, bury his hands in her lustrous curls and his shaft in her delicate body.

Morgan reached out, and laced his fingers with her own. "I am glad you have returned safely," she said.

And, suddenly, he remembered Gawain.

Tristan squeezed her hands. "But not all of us have, Morgan. We need your help."

She stiffened at once. "What do you mean?" Her voice sounded wary. The warm, loving look on her face was replaced by her usual guarded expression. It almost pained him to see it. _Almost._ He had made his choice.

"Gawain is mortally wounded. Arthur and the knights are bringing him back as we speak so that you can heal him."

Morgan gasped in shock. "_What!_" She shook her head, as if negating his words, then glared at him, "You told!" And he did not deny it.

She started to pull back, and tried to wrench her fingers free, but Tristan tightened his grip. Her pulse hammered wildly beneath his thumb, and hinted at the volatile emotions surging inside of her. She was going to be difficult. "Listen to me. He has been disemboweled. You are the only one who can save him now."

"No! No!" she exclaimed, and struggled harder. "You said you would not tell!" Her brows drew downward in a scowl. She was furious now, and frightened. Tristan could feel the sudden heat of her anger, and smell her fear. "You _lied_ to me!" she accused.

He tried to reason with her. "It's Gawain, Morgan. _Gawain_."

Morgan did not listen. "Let me go!" she shouted, and kicked his shin. She was barefoot and did not hurt him, but—lest she try to aim higher next time—he released her hands and spun her around, then roughly pulled her back against his hard body. The collision winded her, driving the air from her lungs in a loud whoosh. Before she could escape, he wrapped his arms around her waist and chest, and trapped her own arms in the process. Morgan was not going anywhere.

"Now listen to me…"

"Let me go!" she shouted again, and wriggled and writhed and pushed to no avail, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The jerky movements of her back and buttocks against his body, and the feel of her soft breasts pressing against his upper arm as she struggled to free herself, set his blood aflame and wreaked havoc with his insides. Tristan's loins burgeoned with life. He was not angry with her—for she had every right to be upset—but he was annoyed.

"I am not letting you go," he warned through gritted teeth, "so stop it before you get hurt."

Still, she refused to listen. As she continued to writhe, Morgan twisted her head sideways and bit him viciously on the arm. The scout grunted in pain and slid his arm upward to grab her chin with a none too gentle hand. He pushed her head back and up until their gazes met—and clashed.

Morgan's eyes were stormy, and bright with hurt and accusation. Her mouth was set in a tight, unyielding line.

Tristan sighed. He did not want to hurt her anymore, but he had to. "It's Gawain. You've _fucked_ him before," he told her harshly, and she flinched as if he had struck her. "Surely that must mean something to you."

He saw her face lose all its color then flush a deep red. He saw the fight go out of her eyes before she closed them tightly.

"Morgan…"

"Please…" she whispered, as her body slumped in his arms, "please don't ask this of me."

"There is no one else I _can_ ask. I'm sorry." And he was, but there was naught he could do about it.

Her eyes remained closed when she started to cry softly. He hardened his heart against her tears and wiped all expression from his face. But Morgan refused to look at him even when he released her at last and gently disentangled the buckles of his cuirass from her hair.

Without sparing him a glance, she walked around him and toward her bed on unsteady legs, looking every bit like a drunkard. She was in deep shock. Tristan thought he heard her mumble, "I have already done what I could for him," though he was not sure of the words. Before he could question her, she plopped on the edge of the mattress, and spoke again, her wet eyes staring into empty space.

"How can you expect me to do this? My master does not know that I…"

"He does not have to," the scout asserted. Morgan bowed her head. She looked as defeated as she sounded, and this time he could not stop the pang in his heart.

"I am expected at the tavern," she now argued half-heartedly. "What do you think will happen when I fail to show up?"

"Bors will send word to Vanora that Arthur has hired you for the night—that should satisfy the tavern keeper. And we will pay you for your time." No one would ever think to question the fort's commander.

Morgan heaved a sigh, and finally lifted her troubled eyes to his. "It's not just that…it's…I am afraid," she admitted. Her hands now clutched at her skirts, opening and closing convulsively. It was a habit of hers when she was frightened, Tristan recalled, and he nearly smiled.

She reminded him of a little girl. He approached the bed and crouched before her. "I know you are afraid, " he told her, in as gentle a voice as he could muster. "But I do not think you have cause to be. We will keep your secret." At least, he hoped so.

She did not believe him. "Your commander is a Christian."

"He is a fair man, Morgan."

"When are Romans ever fair?" she countered. He heard the bitterness in her voice and knew that she must have good reason to doubt.

"Arthur is different from other Romans. In fact, he is only _half_-Roman. He is like you, Morgan," and he was surprised to see her startle and go very still, "for are you not part Roman yourself?"

Morgan said nothing, but he had her full attention now. Her gaze was riveted on his face, her expression strangely intent—and enigmatic. Save for the fear that still lingered in her eyes, he could not read her at all, but at least she was listening.

"If you save Gawain's life, Arthur will not repay you with punishment. He is a noble man, a man of principle. He will protect you, and if, for some reason, he cannot, _I_ will. I give you my word that I _will_ protect you." And he meant it.

Morgan smiled a brittle smile. "Just like you gave me your word not to tell?" she asked him quietly.

Tristan's mouth tightened. True or not, her words stung. He stood up and looked down at her with a cold, impassive face. "I am not _asking_ you to heal him."

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded in understanding. "I have no choice, do I?"

There was no need to reply—she already knew the answer. He stared at her for a moment longer, then headed for the door. "Get what you need. We leave now," he ordered.

Morgan stood and walked to the narrow table in the corner. She lifted the skirt of her chemise and spread it as she kneeled to pull out two baskets from underneath the table. Her hair was so long that it fanned and curled around her on the floor, on top of her red skirt, and he was struck once again by its wild beauty. A brief, appreciative smile graced his lips. Later tonight, when all this was over—when Gawain was healed—Tristan would bed her.

He casually watched from the door as she took a bundle of comfrey and other herbs he did not recognize from the first basket and set them aside. Then she did what he thought was an odd thing. She quickly looked over her shoulder at him before removing the lid off the second basket. His body tensed. Was she trying to hide something? He could not see what was inside, but she rummaged through it with great frenzy and breathed a loud sigh of relief when she found and took out a piece of rock chalk and the pink stone she had used to heal the dog. Curiosity got the better of him, and with the speed and silence of a serpent he sneaked up behind her, and grabbed her wrist just as she was about to replace the lid.

He grabbed her wrist and nearly snapped the fragile bones when he saw what lay inside. Amid a motley assortment of rags and ribbons and rocks were two poppets.

Tristan knew what poppets were used for—black magic. Death spells.

He should not have been surprised—not really—but he was.

He bent over and picked one up in each hand. The first poppet had a small lock of curling black hair stitched onto the head and a bone needle stuck through the chest. He could be anyone. Most of the men in Camboglanna had hair like that. Titus, the brothel keeper and her master, was one such man. Tristan glanced at Morgan. She sat so still that she scarcely seemed to breathe, as she watched him with eyes that were as wide as a doe's. He frowned, and looked at the second poppet. This one had an oak leaf—fresh, not dry—tied around the torso with a pale yellow ribbon, and several long strands of sun-kissed hair wrapped around the head. A woman? Not many at the fort had hair that fair, and most of those who did bleached their dark tresses gold. Tristan's frown turned into a scowl. He held the poppet up to the lamp and took a closer look at that hair. No, not a woman's. _Gawain's._

The second poppet was Gawain.

He dropped them both on the table and swung his head around to look at Morgan. No longer frozen still, her body quivered uncontrollably. Her cheeks were devoid of all color. She was terrified again and did not bother to hide it. Tristan pinned her with hard, glittering eyes—unforgiving eyes—and hissed, "You bloody little bitch."

She had played him for a fool.

Before he could stop himself, he struck her hard across the face, splitting her lip. He struck her even though he had never before hit a woman with his bare hands. Morgan cried out and fell to the floor in a trembling heap. Tristan's fist closed around the hilt of his knife. Only the certain knowledge that Gawain would die without her magic kept him from plunging the blade into her treacherous heart.

It had all been an act on her part. Everything she said and did was an act.

"You lying whore," he spat, as his other hand closed around her arm in a grip that was meant to bruise. He dragged her to her feet. Morgan stumbled against him, and he let go of her arm and shoved her back, for he was loath to have any part of her body touch his.

"Stop," she entreated, holding one hand in front of her in a pleading gesture, while she swept her hair away from her face. With grim satisfaction, his eyes followed the trickle of blood that ran from her torn lip down her chin. He silently vowed to make her bleed a lot more before the night was out.

She had meant to kill Gawain with her witchspell. Ordinarily, Tristan would scoff at the very thought that a poppet could kill, but he had seen Morgan's magic firsthand. He knew what she was capable of. The bitch had bedded Gawain and then tried to kill him as surely as if she held the knife that disemboweled him. Morgan had fooled them all.

"Tristan," she said, her voice as quivery as the rest of her, "it is not what you think." His gaze lifted to her eyes—_vicious,_ _lying_ eyes, he now knew, though to look at them one would never suspect. She wore an expression of abject fear and sadness and pain, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe it away with his fists. But lest he hurt her—truly hurt her—before she could save Gawain, he smothered the burst of hot, impetuous rage that compelled him to strike back. Instead, he allowed his familiar, cold detachment to take over. He allowed his blood to freeze in his veins.

"Destroy it now," he commanded with lethal calmness, and pointed at the poppet.

Morgan shook her head. "If I do, the golden knight will die." He did not believe it for one moment. He would not—could not—believe anything she said anymore. Yet he knew such magic was complicated, not easily reversed. Dare he countermand her and risk further harm to Gawain?

"Get your things together," he told her instead.

But she was not ready to give up. "I can explain…"

"I don't want you to," he interrupted. "I want you to shut up and do as I say." _Or I will kill you._ He did not have to say the words. She understood well enough. For a moment she stood gaping at him, then she nodded her head jerkily and dropped to the floor to gather up the herbs and chalk and healing stone. To these she added several strips of linen from the second basket and wrapped them all up in a kerchief.

"Are you afraid, Morgan? You should be," he taunted as she worked. He sounded cruel and pitiless, but that was the least she deserved. Gawain was _dying_ because of her. Morgan did not look at him, nor did she rise when she was done. She simply sat there with the kerchief on her lap, staring off into some faraway place. And he suddenly realized what she was doing. She had blocked him out; she was blocking it all out.

Tristan muttered an oath. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her to her feet. Then he forced her to look at him.

"You will undo the evil you have wrought this day."

"Tristan, I did not…" she started to protest, but she sounded dull and disengaged.

"Shut up!" he snarled, while his fist twisted painfully in her hair. Morgan stared up at him with flat, passionless eyes, as if she was already dead. Tristan sneered with unmistakable malice. She was beyond contempt, beyond simple hatred. She deserved to be obliterated for what she had done. He drew her closer, brought her face within an inch of his own. Revenge was best served cold, and he was very, very cold.

"You will undo this evil," he repeated, "and save Gawain. Then, little sorceress, you will answer to _me_…"


End file.
